


The Strategic Hazard Integrated Espionage Lightsaber Division

by raiining



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 04:24:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 71,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4005769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton is many things – an ex-carnie, a sabacc player, and an assassin.  What he isn't is a Jedi, and he damn well knows it.  </p><p>S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't the Council, though, and they don't care that he can't summon a Force Wave to save his life.  He has other skills they can use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is the Star Wars AU I have been working on since 2012. *sigh* I didn't mean for it to take this long, but other plot bunnies intervened. 
> 
>  
> 
> Note: this is based loosely on the Star Wars Expanded Universe before the incursion of the Yzong Vong. I neither enjoyed nor finished that series, so the history of this universe is AU after the events of “The Corellian Trilogy”, which is the last book of the New Republic Era that I've actually read. Not that such a thing is remotely important, because this story is set approximately a thousand years after the events of A New Hope.
> 
> A huge THANK YOU to my beta team of OrderlyChaos and Ralkana. THEY ARE AMAZING! This story is a monster, so we're going to do it in pieces. Updates will be Monday morning. There are ten chapters, all written, and an epilogue. I hope you enjoy the ride!

Clint takes a slow, deep breath, and buries himself in the Force.

He’s been told, more than once, that he has the Force sensitivity of a wet noodle, but this – this comes easily to him. It helps that he’s already thinking like a sniper: calm, focused, and controlled, with his vision locked on the target. The fact that his target's just been taken into custody by the Jedi Council’s hit squad is a peripheral note in his focus.

Mailu Ju-Hanu needs to die. He’s a slave-smuggler, the lowest of the low, and Clint doesn’t care if the Council found him first. There’s a bounty on his head and Clint intends to collect it.

He waits for the perfect opportunity. The Jedi are escorting Ju-Hanu to his transport. He’s being pulled along, half-dragged, and his steps are uneven. Clint’s fingers tense on his bow. _Bob, and step, and –_

He lets the arrow fly. It passes through three hundred meters of air and jungle uninterrupted and slides into the space where Clint knows Ju-Hanu’s head will be. A heartbeat later there’s a spurt of blood and the greedy slaver dies with an arrow through his eye, his body shuddering in the grip of the Jedi who’s dragging him. By the time the Jedi realize that he's dead, Clint's already on the move, the _crackle-hiss_ of a lightsaber blazing to life echoing behind him as he runs. 

Clint is silent through the underbrush, collapsing his bow as he goes. He sprints the two kilometers to the outlying city of Relali’ari and ducks his way through spaceport traffic, losing himself inside the city before the Jedi can establish a search perimeter worthy of the name.

He carefully makes his way to his safehouse, strolling in the open when necessary and dashing through the alleyways when not. This port town is the only destination in any direction for five hundred clicks and the Jedi certainly know that he’s here. He could have hidden in the jungle for a few days, trusting the foliage to conceal him, but he’s already tried that once, on Arianna two months ago, and it didn’t go well for him.

They didn't _catch_ him, obviously, but they came too close.

It’s not the Council who are after him, actually. These uniforms are different – black and grey, instead of brown and tan, and they have an embossed eagle on their breast. Clint doesn’t know who they are, but he’s learned not to underestimate them.

It’s strange - as far as he can tell, the organization works with Jedi and non-Jedi alike. Both sides seem to give and take orders, and some of the obviously Force-sensitive individuals don’t even carry lightsabers. Clint first encountered them after carrying out a hit on a disgraced Hutt smuggler named Hora Ki’Booth. He'd shot the slug from three blocks away using a custom designed arrow and exited his perch confident that no one had gotten a look at his face. Clint had been strolling through the city on a crowded street, not bothering to hide himself, when a human man – balding and bland and looking nothing like a Jedi from the holograms – had paused, tilted his head, and headed unerringly for Clint’s position.

It had taken his most inventive crowd-dodging to escape that day, and the close call had kept Clint looking over his shoulder for weeks. He’d eventually written it off as a fluke, but after the hit squad crashed his next operation, Clint had learned to keep his eyes peeled. He examined every job offer carefully, declining any contracts he thought likely to call in the Council’s attack dogs. He had guessed wrong twice already, but managed – through ingenuity, stealth, and a luck he knew would run out eventually – to escape with the contract complete.

 _This_ op had seemed safe enough, a spice trader thrown out of the Guild for double-crossing, a man who’d shot his own slave to create a diversion for his escape, but now, Clint has to wonder.

“Seven hells,” he curses. He’d thought he’d been so careful. He stays crouched, bow drawn and pointed towards the door as he works through all the angles. It _could_ have been a trap, he realizes, not for the spice slaver, but for him. The eagle squad in black-and-grey, whoever they were, could have bribed or threatened the Guild to turn on one of their own, a scumbag they'd known Clint wouldn’t be able to resist. The Jedi could then have arranged to arrest Mailu Ju-Hanu in a public but remote location specifically to flush Clint out.

“Bantha crap,” Clint mutters. He’s been an idiot. He should never have taken the shot. He’s managed to make it out of the jungle alive, but if the contract _is_ a sting designed to capture him, then this bolt-hole may already be compromised. 

Clint bites his lip. He doesn’t want to move – he feels safe here with his bow drawn, and it’s the third time he’s used this apartment in the past three months. As far as his life goes, that’s practically home. 

He shakes his head. If this grimy hold has become something more than it’s supposed to be, then it’s definitely time to move on. Home means familiar, familiar means comfortable, and comfortable means that it's no longer safe. Clint knows this – he shouldn’t need the reminder.

Clint lowers his bow. He presses the button that retracts the weapon into its usual position, checking to make sure that it’s secure. It’s the most expensive piece of equipment he owns, but the original StarkTech components have been switched out a half-dozen times over the years and it doesn’t respond as quickly as it used to anymore. When it’s strapped down, Clint pauses, waiting and listening 

Nothing happens.

He breathes out. He needs to go. He lets himself look around the apartment once more before relegating all of it as expendable, and moving towards the back of the room.

The usual noises are still coming from the street outside. Clint can hear the heavy thump of the neighbors upstairs, the faint rumblings from the speeder circle out back. Nothing sounds out of place, but Clint knows better than to trust his hearing when Jedi are involved. For the thousandth time he curses himself for his limited use of the Force. Trickshot had spent weeks trying to teach him even the rudimentary skills, but no matter how hard he’d tried, he’d failed. The beatings afterwards had hurt, but not as much as the weight of his dreams crashing down around his ears. Trickshot had picked him out from Tiboldt’s because of the rare talent Clint had shown, and for a few glittering weeks Clint had dared to dream of a better life. 

But all he could successfully do with the Force was hide, and that wasn’t a skill that got you into the Jedi Council, or even far in a life of crime. Trickshot had taught Clint the bow instead, and Clint had tried to make up for being a disappointment. It hadn’t been enough, and Clint’s better life had vanished into the mist. Years later, Clint had done the same, after daring to speak up against Trickshot and paying for it with two broken legs.

He’d turned the only skill he had into something of an occupation, becoming a sniper and earning a reputation for being a crack shot. His limited use of the Force became a kind of asset, but it isn't helpful in a situation like this.

 _Real_ Jedi are after him now, beings with skills that far surpass whatever meager illusions Trickshot had been able to teach him. Clint had never been able to hide from his mentor for long, and he doesn’t think he can last indefinitely against a concentrated search. If his safe houses are compromised, then there’s nowhere on Ralavi he can go. 

He needs to get offworld. 

Keeping one eye on the door, Clint quickly changes his shirt and jacket from jungle-camouflage green to a nondescript leather brown and quietly makes his way to the window ledge. It’s a small opening that no one looking would suspect a grown man could escape through, but Clint has always been good with tight spaces. He manages to wiggle out with minimal noise and lands quietly on the street. 

Resisting the urge to glance around him, Clint ducks into an alleyway and then merges with the crowd. Relali’ari is a border town, but the spaceport keeps it busy. It’s a little like Mos Eisley in that way – in middle of absolutely nowhere, but bustling every day of the year. Clint buys a new rain-scarf from the old Rhodian who runs the midtown kiosk and wraps it around his head to hide his sandy-blond hair. 

He’d prefer to take the high road, but if _he_ were tracking himself as a mark, Clint knows he’d be watching the rooftops with interest. He sticks to main thoroughfares and avoids the siren call of the drainpipes below. The weather on Ralavi can go from as fair as the mythical sky of Alderaan, to thundering buckets of pouring rain faster than Clint can pronounce his name in Wooki. The freak weather means his rain-scarf blends him into the crowd, but it makes sewer travel suicidal in the extreme.

Clint takes the circuitous route to the spaceport, catching the occasional glimpse of a Jedi scanning the crowd twice – the black-and-grey uniforms of the eagle squad may look menacing, but they definitely stand out. He avoids those Jedi that he sees easily, but he doubles back twice, worried the Jedi are herding him in a direction of their choosing. The last thing Clint needs is to lead them to Sam.

Sam Wilson is one of the few honest people that Clint knows. The Coruscant-born human had been working as some kind of aid worker in the Outer Rim when he'd been kidnapped and sold on the underground market. Clint had taken the contract for the slaver who’d owned him, and Sam had helped him hide when bad intel nearly got him killed. Together they'd taken the ship, Sam rescuing his fellow prisoners while Clint had finished the job. They'd spent the next few weeks securing identities for the newly freed slaves, while using half of the money Clint got for the contract to renovate the ship. They’d renamed her together, piss drunk on spice-brandy and flush with success. _The Falcon_. The ship had been fast when they'd stolen it, but it she was even more powerful after their upgrades, deadly and swift. 

They keep in touch still, whenever Clint can send a wave, and Clint knows that Sam is currently in-system doing a supply run. Clint has a standing invitation to climb aboard _The Falcon_ , no questions asked, and Clint knows he’s currently in docking bay ninety-four. 

If he can make it to Sam, Clint knows he’ll be safe.

It takes him three hours to make his way to the spaceport, dodging the eagle squad the entire way. When he finally does round the last corner, Clint bumps face-first into the crowd. He stops, blinking, and looks around confused. 

There’s an angry mass of beings clustered in the square in front of the spaceport, muttering darkly, and when Clint peers around them he can see why. The doors of the spaceport are closed.

Clint stares. They closed it. They closed the spaceport – _every_ spaceport across the planet, if the bulletin broadcasting above their heads in basic can be believed. Clint re-reads it three times while his brain does a cold reboot.

This _has_ to be a coincidence. The Jedi Council doesn’t have the power to shut down an entire planet. The Trading Guilds, the Merchant League – hell, the government of Ralavi itself will be up in arms over this. 

Maybe – Clint feels a shiver of fear run across his shoulders – maybe the organization in black and grey isn’t from the Council at all. Clint has heard of a shadow running along the Outer Rim, the whisper of an old enemy spoken about in terms of fear. People say there's some kind of dark Jedi group on the fringes, people who have the power of the Council but not the responsibility. Clint's listened to the rumors and kept his eyes open, but he has yet to see any evidence of such a group.

It would take a lot of power to close a planet, though. That, or a hell of a lot of fear. Clint knows which is easier.

Turning away from the spaceport, Clint reaches out for the Force, for his sniper headspace, for _anything_ he can think of that could calm the staccato beating of his heart. He needs to focus. He needs to _think_. 

They – whoever They are – have closed the spaceport. Okay. Clint knows half a dozen smugglers currently on planet who will take that as a personal challenge. The problem is, if whoever's chasing him is this serious about it, they'll probably retain and board any ship that manages to break atmo. So either Clint needs a really fast ship, or he has to buckle down and prepare to wait this out.

He thinks of Sam again – Sam, who's probably figured out this is his fault and is worried sick about him, because that’s the kind of person Sam is – but he dismisses the idea. He can’t drag Sam and the _Falcon_ into this. If this _is_ a sting to capture him, Clint knows he’s in serious trouble.

He has to think. The city is large and well populated enough that there's no way the group after him will be able to individually detain and question everyone in Relali’ari. They'll probably do a mass-field scan and then try to lure him out into the open when that doesn't take. There’s only so long anyone, no matter how well connected or how terrifying, can hold down a planet. Clint just needs to wait long enough for the spaceport to reopen, and then likely another week or so after that to be safe. 

First things first – Clint takes a right-hand turn and heads towards the nearest bar.

It’s a good tactical move, and it comes with the bonus of refreshment. Clint listens to the shouting around him and joins in on occasion. It takes an hour, but he locates two smugglers who aren’t going to let a downed spaceport hold them planet-side. Clint files their names and ship ID’s away for later. If it comes down to running, he wants to have options besides Sam. 

A scream from outside the bar catches his attention. Clint turns, one hand dropping to his knife and the other cocking his wrist, readying but not activating his bow. The rest of the bar turns with him. A second later and there's another scream, then a third. Someone starts shouting. Clint can hear the sounds of scuffling along with the commotion, and all conversation in the bar has come to a complete stop. People stand half out of their seats, but no one is willing to take that first step and open the door.

Clint curses. He’s being an idiot, but he can’t stand around and do nothing while people are being hurt – especially if it’s his fault. 

He jogs to the door and palms it open. The volume of sound increases as the rush of terrified screams washes in from the street. Clint can see people running, scrambling to get away from the direction of the spaceport. There are already several people lying motionless on the ground, trampled by their fellow citizens. Across from him, Clint sees a young Twi'lek girl go down screaming. He doesn’t stop to think before dashing across the street and lifting her into his arms. He carries her under an awning and away from the crush of beings, and stares at the rush of people that’s quickly becoming a stampede.

What in the seven Corellian hells is going on?

The young girl in his arms is sobbing, her brain tendrils shuddering. Clint looks around and catches the eye of an older Twi'lek woman weaving frantically through the crowd. He catches the flash of relief on her face when she sees the girl is unhurt, and Clint deposits her safely in the woman’s arms. 

The woman squeezes the child tight for a moment, before looking up and stuttering her thanks. Clint shakes his head and points at the ground. “Stay here,” he orders in Basic, hoping that they will understand, and turns back to the crowd. He disappears into the sea of bodies, keeping to the sides and fighting against the flow. He tries to catch the babble of voices around him, but there are too many languages and too much confusion for him to pick up more than “men in black” and “shooting people”. 

The fear is like a dose of cold water through Clint’s viens. His feet itch with the need to run. The confusion of the crowd is the perfect cover in which to vanish. Clint knows he could disappear and find a new safehouse, hidden away where no one could find him. He could resurface three months and four identities later, and quietly make his way off world. 

It's a tempting scenario, but Clint knows he won't go through with it. He’s already made the decision to stay and do what he can to help.

He’s not sure how much help a self-trained assassin can be, especially one that’s practically Force-null and stupid enough to spring the trap set for him, but Clint has to try. Ralavi isn’t home, but Clint’s got people here he cares about. He thinks of Sam and the _Falcon_ and shakes his head. He has to do what he can to keep them safe.

Turning towards the nearest awning, Clint hoists himself hand over hand until he can swing, low and concealed, onto the flat roof of the store. He’s still worried about Jedi snipers, but he needs to move faster than the crowd will allow. He does his best to stay hidden as he makes his way via rooftop back towards the spaceport. 

To compensate for being out in the open, Clint reaches out for the thin tendrils of the Force he can feel. Concentrating as best he can while ducking his way across the rooftops, Clint slowly weaves the strands he can feel into a cloak around him. He quiets his breathing and buries himself in his Force-cocoon, hiding himself as best he knows how.

It’s not much, but it’s all he has to work with. Clint ignores the faint press of a headache that starts pounding against his brow – he’s already tapped into his meager Force abilities a few times today, and if he keeps himself hidden for much longer there are going to be consequences he can’t ignore. He has a lot of practice pushing himself past his limits, though, and he knows he can go for hours yet before the headache – and the dizziness that will follow – becomes an issue.

He stops his rooftop journey when he's close enough to pick out the pattern of the flags waving on top of the helipad, which is still a significant distance away. Clint knows his eyesight is better than most, and he hopes he’s far enough away and deep enough in the Force that he won’t be instantly recognized and shot. He crouches behind a pile of boxes filled with empty bottles and squints at the spaceport. There are still civilians running from the scene, but the area immediately around the closed port has been taken over by twenty seven figures wearing black. They've arranged themselves in a half-circle in the main thoroughfare, guarding the entrance to the spaceport, and every one of them is carrying a large, blue-tinted, vaguely menacing-looking blaster. 

_What the ...?_ Clint thinks, confused. He’s traveled pretty extensively around the Outer Rim, but he’s never seen a weapon like that before. If this group is a member of the eagle squad that’s out to get him – and the uniforms are different, so Clint’s not sure they are – they’re using new technology Clint’s completely unfamiliar with.

The black uniforms only come up to the neck, however, so Clint shakes out his wrist, ready to activate his bow. It’s not hard to identify the person in charge. There’s a man standing in front of the semi-circle of black-clad bodies, his armor glossy and reflective in a way the others aren't. Clint’s willing to bet the man is ray-shielded – not a small expense for personal armor. If he's right, that means blasters will be deflected. 

That’s okay – Clint’s never been a fan of blasters.

The man looks human enough from this angle. He has a large, smooth forehead and dark, beady eyes. He's laughing at the civilians still running from the scene. Before Clint can do anything to stop him, he lifts his oversized blaster and fires indiscriminately into the crowd. People scream and fall over, and Clint feels white-hot anger bubble up inside his chest.

He reaches over his shoulder for his concealed quiver, more than ready to shoot this asshole in the head, but the instant he moves, the man turns. The yellow sun of Ralavi glints off the lightsaber handle at the man’s waist, and Clint freezes. 

Instinctively, Clint empties his mind of hatred and anger. He pulls the tentative strands of the Force he’s managed to cling together tighter around himself in a thick cocoon, and thinks invisible thoughts. 

He doesn’t exist. There’s no one here. There’s only a pile of boxes and some empty bottles, and nothing else. There is nothing for the man to find. Clint is less than a shadow – he’s a ghost, and then a whisp, and then a sensor echo that slowly fades away. He’s gone. 

There's no one here. 

Disappearing is a skill Clint had to learn a long time ago. He would feel a spark of pride that the man completes his head turn and looks away, if he weren’t concentrating so hard on keeping his mind blank. The man doesn’t glance back to where Clint is crouched on the rooftop, and Clint keeps his breathing slow and controlled for two beats more. Then, as blankly as he can, Clint cocks his wrist and thumbs the activation button. His bow springs into his hand fully assembled, the beautiful recurve fitting into his palm like it was made to be there.

It was. His bow was the only present he’d ever received from Trickshot, and he’d had it built to spec. Clint strokes the riser once, calming himself even further, and notches his arrow to the string.

He lines up his shot while keeping his mind perfectly blank. Even the headache he feels has recessed into the background, his mind clear of everything but a subconscious calculation of wind speed and trajectory. It's already been a long day, but being on the run from Jedi for the past several months has put Clint at the top of his game – nothing registers but direction of the wind and the sight of his target.

He inhales, exhales, and releases his shot. He doesn’t miss – he _never_ misses – but his skill with the bow is better than his meager control of the Force. Something spooks the Jedi’s senses and he spins, lightning fast. His lightsaber leaps off his belt and into his hand before Clint’s arrow can cross the distance between them.

The saber flashes and Clint’s arrow disintegrates into ash. He sees the man grin, wicked and sharp, before his eyes widen comically.

It’s Clint turn to smile.

He’s not an amateur, and he knows how to plan for Jedi. Clint had kept shooting even as the man had moved, and while his second and third arrows are dodged and the fourth hits the lightsaber and disintegrates, arrow five takes the man high in the right shoulder and arrow six impales him in the left thigh.

Clint keeps shooting. His quiver isn’t unlimited, but he has enough raw materials packed into the base to replicate at least another five hundred arrows. He can keep this up all day.

The Jedi snarls and manages to block the seventh and eighth arrows, but by then the rest of his cronies have realized he's under attack. Clint is still buried in the Force, but he can't disguise the flight path of his arrows. The cronies gather enough brain power between them to start firing in Clint’s general direction, and _he_ isn’t ray-shielded. Clint keeps up his barrage for as long as he can, but eventually he’s forced to duck behind cover.

The leader now has four separate arrows embedded in his body, none of them kill-shots, but Clint has taken out six of the twenty-seven men in black. He’s got a score along his left arm from a lucky shot – hardly more than a burn – but his head is starting to pound. 

Too long spent buried in the Force, for all the good it did him. At least he isn’t dead yet.

Clint peeks out once from behind his cover to survey the spaceport. There are twenty one men in black left, meaning there are more than enough to run him down while the remainder stay to contain the port. His only chance now is to move – he’ll have to lead the people who follow him on a merry chase, and take them out one by one. He can double back and attack the ones covering the port after, preferably from somewhere up high.

Clint doesn’t allow himself to wonder how he’s going to fight against a Jedi strong enough to have seen through his one good trick. He’s got to do something, and this is the best plan he has.

He eyes the distance from his pile of boxes to the fire escape at his left and readies himself to jump. Just as he crouches, though, there's a violent rumble and then a flash of heat. Clint stumbles and goes down to his knees, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip to keep himself from crying out as the permacrete bites into his palms. The jolt of pain shatters his control and his Force-cocoon evaporates.

Fully aware that his every move is now visible and obvious to the Jedi below, Clint looks over his shoulder towards the spaceport. Thick black smoke is rising into the air. A moment later there are two more flashes of light, and Clint is glad he’s already down as the shock wave rolls over him. 

He half-crawls, half-stumbles back to his cover and peeks over the edge. The spaceport is swarming with figures now, the black of the original group mixed with the black-and-grey of the eagle squad Clint had seen earlier.

He takes a moment to assess the situation on the ground. The leader looks to have caught most of the explosion on his lightsaber. Despite numerous burns on his face and hands – not to mention the four arrows still sticking haphazardly out of his body – he's turned with a snarl to meet the oncoming threat. 

The rest of his goons are already battling the eagle squad. Lightsabers and blasters are flashing everywhere, and Clint notes the devastating effect the black minions’ glowing weapons are having on the Council’s forces. Where the blue light strikes, the target disintegrates. Nothing is left. 

Clint puts an arrow to his string and tries a few shots at the leader’s head. The man must be fully within the Force though, because he blocks each shot contemptuously without once breaking his stride. Clint watches as he gestures towards a group of Council figures running towards him and winces as the Force-wave sends them flying. Trickshot had done that to him once or twice, and it was never fun. This guy's looks to pack a helluva lot more punch than Trickshot ever had, though, and Clint bets more than few of the eagle guys won’t be getting up from where they're sprawled on the ground. Clint shifts his focus to a group of minions firing around cover, looking for someone he can actually fight, and kills all four before the figures in black-and-grey can rally from the leader's attack. Clint sees one of the men look up towards his rooftop, and even from this distance he can see the smile as the man acknowledges his help. 

Clint nods back before scanning the rest of the battle. The tide is shifting. The minions are more spread out now and the eagle people are doing a decent job of keeping them pinned down. There is a man in charge on the ground directing things, and he seems to have the situation under control. There are a few eagle snipers at various locations around the spaceport, which makes Clint glad he originally decided to avoid the rooftops. Clint can’t see the snipers themselves, but he does note their blaster fire. They aren’t very good shots, though, and they’re still concentrating fire on the leader. It's like they don't even notice that the man is ray-shielded.

Idiots.

Clint keeps shooting at the minions pinned down by the Council's forces. It doesn't take long to eliminate the threat. Five minutes later and the fight is mostly over. The leader is still a danger, but all but two of the minions have been taken out. The last are holed up behind cover, and Clint looks over at the eagle people to try and guess what their plan going forward is going to be.

The man in charge of the eagle squad must be a Jedi, because he looks up just as Clint glances down. Their eyes meet and Clint sucks in a sharp breath.

It’s _him_ , it's the man from Merida – the first one to cock his head and stare at Clint, the one he’s _sure_ has been leading the search for him these past several months. 

Clint takes the opportunity to stare. He hasn’t had the chance to evaluate his nemesis, not with all the running he’s been doing. From this distance, the man isn't much to look at – he's balding and not very tall, maybe Clint’s height or a little taller. He could be a Coruscant bureaucrat, if he weren’t in a field suit directing the battle. There is something in the way he stands, though, a calmness, a confidence that reassures Clint despite the bland-looking face.

If this _is_ him, the man who’s been chasing him, than he’s obviously more competent than he looks. No one could track Clint across countless star systems and through various contracts without knowing what they’re doing. Clint realizes this must be the man who set the trap to begin with – the one who convinced the Guild to turn against one of their own. Clint swallows nervously as the eye contact lengthens – he is aware, suddenly, of the fire escape on the roof. 

He could run. He could turn tail and vanish, leaving the eagle squad to their fate. It’s not as if they need him – Clint's already tried his one trick, and it failed. He doesn’t think he has much to add to this fight. What’s the point of staying just to get caught? Clint has been on the run from these guys for months now, and nothing about that has changed.

And yet, that's a lie, because it has. The man in charge on the ground is still staring at him, and as Clint watches he nods his head almost imperceptibly towards the minions holed up in their cover. Clint blinks, but he understands the wordless question – he nods back, and the man holds up two fingers.

Clint echoes the gesture, and then sets up his shot. It will be tricky, but he can do it. He doesn’t think the eagle squad’s snipers could, because he’s seen them in action and they aren’t that good. Not compared to him, at least. He counts down in his head as two of the eagle squad on the ground take direction from the man in charge, and then fan out. When two minutes have passed, there's a shout and some blaster fire, and then the minions are stumbling away from their cover in surprise. Clint fires two arrows in rapid succession, and he doesn’t miss. A moment later both minions are down with non-lethal injuries. Clint smiles.

He is the absolute _best_.

He looks down for the man in charge, anticipating the smile he will get for a job well done, but he's already gone. Clint panics for a second before noticing the black-and-grey figure sneaking around to the opposing leader’s position. 

Oh _crap_ , Clint thinks, and readies his bow.

The man’s attack isn’t going to work – Clint can see that from this angle. The leader has been distracted by the removal of his two last minions, but the man has the Force and he’s already scanning the battle, looking for the threat he must feel in his mind. Clint changes tactics and aims down.

The leader feels it coming and his lightsaber sweeps around in defense, but Clint’s learned his tells. The first arrow is vaporized, but the second embeds itself in the leader’s foot.

The man screams, more from surprise than from pain, and that’s when the balding man attacks. He leaps up from his hiding place and somersaults towards the leader, twisting in midair and activating his lightsaber as he falls. The leader manages to twist around and catch the attack on his own crimson blade and the _crackle-hiss_ of lightsabers connecting echoes across the divide.

Clint watches, rapt, as the battle begins. The leader’s face is flush with fury, the edges of his burns crack and ooze, and the shafts of Clint’s arrows catch the sun where they stick out from his shoulders, side, foot, and thigh. Despite this, the leader moves with a grace that defies injury, catching the balding man’s blade with his own and twisting _into_ the strike, his injured foot sweeping around to catch the balding man in the chest. 

The balding man in black-and-grey jumps backwards as the kick connects, to lessen the impact, then lifts a hand in an imperious gesture to summon a Force Wave. The strength of it actually knocks the leader back several feet, and the balding man jumps forward. He pivots in mid-leap so his attack comes down from the opposite side. The leader moves to counter the blade, but it’s a feint, and the balding man spins again, faster than Clint can follow, and attacks.

The battle is on.

The rest of the Council’s squad has backed away now, the leader’s minions scattered where they lay or tied up behind the Council’s lines. The field is clear but for the two men, who fight with a skill Clint’s never seen before.

He’d always heard that Jedi were calm. If asked, Clint would have said he anticipated a battle filled with short movements and non-lethal strikes. There are plenty of holocams of Jedi fights, but most are recreations of famous battles, performed by non-Jedi and edited to look exciting. The few real copies that are floating around are from the early days of the Galactic Alliance and were done more for PR than for accuracy. 

Clint's never seen a real Jedi in action before, and while the balding man’s face remains calm, Clint can tell that it’s a studied blankness. He looks like a sabacc player, careful of his tells. His blows, when they come, are strong – he thrusts, parries, and catches his opponent's blade on his own, all with a controlled violence that catches Clint off guard. 

The two men trade blows as if it’s a dance – spinning, slashing, and whirling faster than Clint has ever seen two people move in his life. The leader’s blade is a crimson red, and the balding man’s a brilliant white. When they strike it’s like it’s been choreographed, both so deep in the Force that they are reacting almost before the other has moved. Clint is caught by the unexpected beauty of it, the glow of the sabers and the smell of ozone that drifts on the breeze every time they connect with a _crackle-hiss_. 

He still has his bow, and he would fire a shot at the leader in black if he was reasonably certain of not hitting the balding man instead. The two figures are moving too fast, though, and Clint knows he can't guarantee a successful shot. 

He’s not a Jedi. His meager skills are nothing compared to this level of expertise.

But he’s not the only one on the field, and evidently the Council’s squad understands that in battle you do what you need to win. Clint gets it – he's an assassin, he doesn't hold to the romantic notion of playing fair. When one of the Council’s men – the younger guy who smiled at Clint in battle – shouts at the two combatants and lobs a flash grenade, Clint does nothing but grin.

The shout is obviously some sort of prearranged signal, because the balding man reacts instantly. He ducks and rolls, and the explosion catches the leader in black in the chest. The grenade is more flash than bang, but it’s enough to throw the leader off his stride. The balding man doesn’t hesitate – his lightsaber darts forward to strike.

The leader has enough of a fight left in him to parry, but it’s not enough. The balding man is better, his movements still calm and focused, while the leader in black is snarling with rage. The remainder of the fight is short and brutal. The balding man connects with a kick that sends the leader's red lightsaber flying and knocks the man to the ground. The red blade automatically turns off as it lands in the dirt, and the balding man lets it go. He flicks his wrist so his white saber is pointed at the leader’s throat, and the field of battle stills.

Clint knows he’s not the only one who’s sucking in a breath right now, but he also knows enough not to let up his guard. His fingers tighten around the string of his bow, and he’s ready when the man on the ground snarls, whipping himself forward. His legs snap out and scissor the balding man behind his knees. He falls, and the leader is reaching for the handle of his lightsaber even as Clint’s arrow finds his eye.

The leader flops back, his features melting into shock before he dies. Clint fires another two arrows into the man’s head just to be sure. The body doesn't twitch, and Clint exhales.

He comes back to himself to realize that he's breathing hard. He's stepped away from his cover and is standing on the building's ledge. There are two more arrows notched on his string and his hands are steady. His headache is back, pounding into his eyes, but he focuses on the balding man picking himself up from the ground. Clint watches as he brushes dust from his pants and straightens his shoulders. 

He doesn’t know what to expect – some men would be angry that Clint took their kill – but the man simply glances over to Clint’s position. The skin around his eyes crinkles and Clint thinks the man is smiling. His lips don’t move, but there is a twinkle to his gaze. Clint wonders if he’s amused.

Clint decides - what the hell? - and grins back. He’s exhausted and has been driven to the edge of his abilities. The world is going fuzzy around the edges and if he doesn’t move soon, he’s going to get dizzy and fall off of his ledge to the ground below. That would be a disgraceful end to his stellar career, so he steps back onto the roof proper before his knees have a chance to give out.

He releases the tension on his bow and presses the button to fold it back into its usual location on his wrist. When it's secure, he turns and makes his way to the fire ladder, no longer thinking of escape. 

The rest of the population of Relali’ari is slowly emerging from their homes, emboldened by the quiet and edging forward to see what’s happened. The Council’s people in black-and-grey are securing the perimeter, but they let him through with a wide-eyed look as Clint ambles unsteadily towards them.

The fight looks different from the ground, the faces of the dead and the blood on the ground more stark than they had been from on high. There's a reason Clint prefers to fight from a distance, and he feels his stomach roil as he makes his way towards the balding man.

He still looks good, even up close. His thin hair is a little tousled, and there are streaks of dust and mud on his face and hands, but his eyes remain kind as Clint walks towards him, and they are smiling.

Clint grins back, and they stand for a moment close enough to touch before Clint says, “I’m waiting for my thank you.”

The man does smile at that – a small twitch that nonetheless lights up his face. Clint’s oblivious to the murmuring behind them, his eyes focused on the breathtaking sight.

“Thank you,” the man says graciously, still smiling. His voice is low and smooth, and it settles something indefinable along Clint’s nerves. The headache that has been pressing into his eyes recedes a little. Clint feels as if he can breathe again.

The man’s eyes are serious, despite his smile. “Clint Barton, I presume?”

Clint grins. “Damn straight. No one else could have made a shot like that.”

“No, they couldn’t,” he agrees. “Not that one, nor the two previous.”

Clint shrugs, because he may be cocky but he’s not actually that good with praise. He hasn’t had much experience. He tries to cover his embarrassment with a wave of his hand. “So, are you guys, uh, good here? Cause it'd be pretty awesome if you gave me a freebie for helping you out. I can be off-world in twenty minutes if you look the other way.”

The man’s eyes twinkle. “No, I don’t think so.”

Clint rubs the back of his head. “Yeah, well, it was a worth a shot.” He shrugs again, because he knew how this was going to go down the second he decided to stay and help. He crosses his hands dramatically in front of his chest, ready for the cuffs. “Take me to your leader.”

The man huffs, and Clint’s pretty sure it’s a laugh. His eyes are twinkling, at least. “I hardly think that will be necessary,” he says, but he does put a hand on Clint’s elbow. Clint blinks at the contact, but the man steers him easily towards the rest of the eagle squad. Clint walks beside him, and they stop before the man who smiled at Clint during the battle.

“Agent Sitwell, this is Clint Barton. Escort him to the ship and take good care of him, please. I’ll meet you there when the cleanup is done.”

Sitwell nods and claps Clint on the shoulder. “Nice shooting up there. You really saved our asses.”

Clint stares at the man, feeling thrown. Where are the cuffs, the chains, the reading of his rights? He licks his lips. “Um, you’re welcome?”

Sitwell laughs.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another round of applause for my FANTASTIC beta's, Ralkana and Orderlychaos, for being utterly fabulous in every way. THANK YOU LADIES!

Clint falls asleep in the shuttle that takes him into orbit. The trip only lasts ten minutes, though, and Clint wakes up feeling worse than he did before he nodded off. The headache is back, pressing behind his eyes, and his tongue feels rougher than sandpaper. 

He hides the pain as he’s led to a small windowless room inside the _Helicarrier Gold_. The ship is a floating fortress, bigger than anything Clint's ever seen except those ancient Star Destroyers the Empire used to use way back when. Clint had only caught a glimpse of her from the outside, but that was enough to impress. Sitwell tells him it’s their mobile command post, and will stay in orbit around Ralavi until they're done with their current objective.

Clint doesn’t know if that’s him anymore, or if it ever was. He can’t imagine someone sending a ship like this to a backwards planet like Ralavi just for _him_. No, this has to be about that crazy leader guy Clint shot at the spaceport. Clint just got unlucky and was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Story of his life.

He waits in the interrogation room for what feels like an hour. Clint has debated going to sleep in that time, but by this point he’s keeping the headache at bay with nothing but his force of will. He knows that when he crashes he’s going to crash _hard_ , and he’d rather do that when he knows he’ll wake up again. Sitwell can smile all he likes, but Clint doesn’t know what’s going on here. He weaves the few struggling strands of the Force he can feel tighter around himself and tries to stay awake.

When the balding man walks in, he carries a datapad with him. He places it on the table before he speaks. 

“Mr. Barton, my apologies for keeping you waiting. Cleanup always takes more time than expected.” The man's changed out of his black-and-gray uniform and into some kind of suit, a button-up type without a cape. It looks old fashioned, but it works for him. The tie brings out the man’s startling blue eyes, and Clint must be more tired than he thought, because he kind of wants to fall into those eyes and never come out again.

He blinks and realizes that the man is holding out his hand. Clint warily extends his own, and the man shakes it. “My name is Phil Coulson. I am a Senior Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Shield?” 

“S.H.I.E.L.D., actually,” Coulson says, somehow managing to enunciate the punctuation marks as he sits down across from Clint. “It’s an acronym for Strategic Hazard Integrated Espionage Lightsaber Division.”

Clint wrinkles his nose. “So you guys _are_ the Council’s attack dogs.”

Coulson’s lips never twitch, but the skin around his eyes crinkles. “We are associated with the Council, yes. We are, however, a liaison office within the Galactic Alliance rather than a division of the Council itself. Our job is to identify, categorize, and eliminate threats to public safety early, before they grow large enough to require military or Jedi-specific intervention.”

Clint frowns. “So, you’re spies.”

“I prefer to think of us as scouts,” Coulson offers. “To do our job effectively, S.H.I.E.L.D. is made up of many individuals with a wide range of abilities and skills.”

“Which means you work with Jedi and Force-sensitives and practical nulls like me?”

Coulson’s nostrils flare. “We do not refer to individuals who cannot access the Force as ‘nulls,’ but otherwise, yes – it would be correct to say that the majority of our agents do not use the Force.”

Clint threads his hands behind his head and tries to look casual, despite the pounding behind his eyes. He knows the room is being monitored, and he isn’t about to show weakness. Clint can do bored-but-better-than-you against the most dangerous spice pirates in the Outer Rim, but the difficulty here is that Coulson’s a Jedi, or at least Jedi-trained. Clint struggles to keep some control over the Force, hiding the worst of his exhaustion and low-level pain. 

His control of the Force is unraveling, though, his tenuous connection failing fast. He can keep up this charade for a few more minutes, maybe, but not much longer than that. He's got to figure out what's going on and get out of here fast.

“So what do you want me with me, then? Did one of my contracts put a bump in your Strategic Hazard Integrated Espionage Lightsaber Division?”

Coulson almost smiles again at him. “Clint, _you_ are a bump in the Strategic Hazard Integrated Espionage Lightsaber Division. Do you realize how long it has been since we’ve had our eye on someone and not been able to catch them? Let me avoid inflating your ego beyond what is reasonable and simply say that it has been a while. You have kept us on the run for more than three months now, and that is – ” he smiles an actual, honest-to-Alderaan smile, managing to look both slightly exasperated and a little fond, “ – rather incredible.”

Clint feels a flash of pride and struggles to keep it tamped down behind his shield. He thinks Coulson catches a whiff of it, though, so he shrugs and offers the man a cocky grin. “I have my moments. So did you have to forge a contract to find me? Was it you who shut down the spaceport?”

Coulson’s face tightens. “Yes. You should understand that we aren’t the only organization you’ve impressed. S.H.I.E.L.D. has been trying to track you so we can offer you a job,” and Coulson’s expression doesn’t flicker, but Clint thinks some of his surprise leaks through the thinning walls of his Force-cocoon, “but there’s another organization that wanted to approach you first.”

Clint makes a face, thinking of the man standing in the center of the spaceport and shooting civilians as they ran away. “The men in black with the crazy blue blasters?”

Phil nods. “Precisely. They call themselves HYDRA. They are a new division of an old enemy, Jedi who turned to the Dark Side. Usually such Sith, as they are called, work alone or at most within a group of two. They are dangerous, but have historically risen to power through conflict with one another, which tends to keep their numbers small. HYDRA is different. They are a group of beings with a wide variety of Force-sensitives and non-Force users, much like S.H.I.E.L.D., though their goal is very different.”

Clint raises an eyebrow. “Let me guess – they want to take over the galaxy.”

Phil does that thing where he almost smiles again. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t, but that’s always the story.” Clint thinks back to the holocams he’s watched in the dead of night in more crappy hotel rooms than he cares to name. “So, they want to hire me, or – ?”

“Or,” Phil agrees. “HYDRA, or whoever is in charge of HYDRA - we haven’t quite figured that out yet - seems to be very good at twisting people’s intentions. You have a very specific code of honour, which is obvious from the contracts you’ve chosen and those you’ve ignored, and those you’ve actively attempted to sabotage. HYDRA believes it can offer you work, and slowly turn your code against itself.”

Phil’s blue eyes focus on him, and despite his best effort, Clint shivers. “If they were to succeed, you would become one of their most extraordinary assets. If they did not succeed, they would kill you.” Phil indicates the datapad still sitting on the table. “I would like to offer you a different choice.”

Clint licks his lips. His mouth is dry. “Join S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

Phil nods. “Join S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Clint closes his eyes. This is a lot to take in – not only is he being offered a job, which happens every second day, but apparently he's _wanted_ , and isn’t that a shock. His head is starting to pound, though, and it’s getting harder and harder to work around the pain. “I need to think this through.”

He can almost hear Coulson nod, and then there's a quick rustle of fabric. The world swings wildly for a moment, vertigo twisting his stomach into knots. Clint swallows heavily and looks up, seeing the sharp planes of contrast along Coulson’s face, the way the light divides his cheekbones into hills and valleys of shadow.

_Uh oh_. 

Clint’s further gone than he thought. He closes his eyes momentarily, a long slow blink, that he hopes will bring the world back into focus. It doesn’t. Clint can hear his own breathing, the rasp of air in his chest, and the sounds from around the room are growing louder. The barely distinguishable _thump thump thump_ of the air filtration unit is becoming an deafening bellow, and the low, difficult-to-hear whine of the simmering hyperdrive engines is starting to grate along his skin.

Clint grits his teeth and forces it down. This has happened to him once before, his sensory systems going into overdrive, and it’s never fun. The last time was on a stakeout that took too long and kept him in his sniper-headspace for over a day. It’s hasn’t been that long now, but he’s been doing a lot more than sitting stationary on a roof.

Coulson’s voice is at once loud, and very, very far away.

“Take as much time as you need. S.H.I.E.L.D. will be staying in orbit for another few days at least.”

Clint tries to nod, but the motion makes his nausea worse. Fear floods him, and his stomach roils. No. _No._ Not now. He's finally being offered something that he's wanted for a long time, a place he could be accepted and maybe understood. He doesn’t trust it, he _can't_ trust it, but he wants it nonetheless. 

He’s always said that he’s better than what he's been doing, that he's more than a man who shoots other people for money. Coulson talked about his personal code, but all Clint's ever wanted to do is help people. There had never been anyone there to help him, and he doesn’t want that cycle to continue.

Sam has always said Clint could fly with him on the _Falcon_ , but Clint knows that wouldn't be enough. 

Coulson is here, now, and he’s offering Clint a job to help people. Clint won’t prove himself a screw up, not here. He reins in his spiralling senses, and forces himself to concentrate on Coulson’s voice. 

“You can let me know when you're ready.”

Clint manages a smile. “Sounds good. Do you have a pilot who can shuttle me back down planet-side to catch a few hours of sleep?” His stomach is roiling so he smirks to hide his nausea. “Or you letting me bunk in with you tonight?”

Coulson doesn’t blink, but the tips of his ears turn red. It’s distracting enough that Clint can actually stand under his own power without throwing up. 

“We do have a cabin set aside for you, if you would like.” Coulson’s voice is even despite the blush.

Clint shrugs, carefully, just to show he can. Normally he would insist on going back to a room he's previously deemed secure, but he's beginning to doubt he could even make it to the shuttle bay. His control of the Force is fraying, and it's fraying fast. He's going to have to let his guard down soon, or it’s going to let itself down. He’d rather be planet-side away from all these Jedi when that happens, but he's running out of time.

He may already be out. Coulson's starting to look at him funny. Clint doesn’t freeze, because he has a lot of experience with not panicking under pressure, but he does tense. He knows his control is in tatters.

In blind hope, he reaches for the Force again, but that final push proves the chain that breaks the Wookiee's back. His head _hurts_ , a sharp, blinding pain, and he can’t stop his knees from giving out.

Clint grunts and drops to the floor. His control over the Force shatters. Coulson sucks in a sharp breath as everything that Clint has been hiding comes flooding out from behind his broken shields. His head bounces once off the scuffed tiles but Coulson catches him before he can rattle his brains more than once. 

Coulson’s fingers are warm on his head, and some distant part of Clint likes the sensation. He tries saying something, anything, but the world is spinning and it’s taking him along for the ride.

Clint has just enough consciousness left to hear Coulson shout something that sounds suspiciously like “Medic”. 

_Bantha bantha crapppp,_ Clint thinks. 

And then he blacks out.

 

*

 

When he comes to, Clint is laying on his back in a sterile white room. There's a low pounding behind his eyes and _everything_ hurts – his arms, his legs, his _face_. Clint groans and tries to roll away from the light that's burning into his eyes. Someone beside him swears, and there's the sound of a palm hitting a switch.

The light dims suddenly and the figure at his bedside moves into his field of vision.

“Sorry about that,” the someone says. Clint knows that voice. He blinks, eyes gritty before they focus, and sees Phil Coulson standing beside his bed. The sight doesn’t make much sense, so Clint blinks and looks around again. 

He’s definitely in a medbay of some kind, probably still on the _Helicarrier Gold_. He’s in a private room, and there’s a bench to his right that seems to pop out of the wall. Coulson was obviously just sitting there, waiting for him to wake up – there are datapads scattered about. From the lines on his face, he’s been sitting there for a while. 

“You should sleep,” Clint says, without thinking.

Coulson looks amused. Tired and more than a little pissed off too, but still amused.

He holds up a tablet. Clint can see it displays some kind of a form that’s half-filled out. “Sleep is for those who don’t have paperwork.” 

Clint grunts a laugh he can’t hold back. The movement hurts, and Coulson’s gaze hardens. Clint flinches.

Coulson must catch the reflex. His features instantly soften. Clint releases the breath he's been holding and looks away, ashamed. He can't believe it. He's just wrecked the most important job interview he's ever had. There is no way Coulson can look at him now and see him as anything but a liability. 

“I’m sorry,” Coulson says.

Clint looks back at him, surprised. “ _You’re_ sorry?”

Coulson shakes his head. “I should have realized – I’ve read your file, I _know_ what you can do, and I still didn’t think – ”

Clint interrupts him. “ _I’m_ the one who passed out, it’s not your fault.” It hurts, but he manages to get an arm underneath himself. “Give me a minute and I’ll get out of your hair.”

Coulson moves, placing a hand on Clint’s chest. His touch is light, but incredibly strong. He looks _furious_. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Clint stares at him, confused. “Um. Leaving?”

Coulson closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, obviously reaching for calm. “You are not supposed to move. The medics have made it very clear to me, several times, that you are very definitely not to move. You shouldn’t even be awake – you should be trying to heal.”

Clint frowns at him. “I’m okay,” he explains. “I’m just tired. I over-reached myself, but I’ll be fine in a day or two.” He tries to shake his head, but it hurts. “It’s not the first time I’ve done something like this.”

Coulson doesn’t shift away. His hand continue to press Clint gently back down onto the bio-bed. It feels nice, and Clint wonders with some part of his brain how long it’s been since someone touched him with kindness. Probably since that two-day stint with Sam half a cycle ago. 

“It’s more than just simple exhaustion, Barton. You’ve reached beyond yourself into the Force, but the Force can only do so much. You’ve pushed your body far past its natural limits and it is not happy with you. Right now you’ve got low-level muscle injury throughout your body, some generalized nerve damage, and the equivalent of a minor concussion. You need to rest.”

Clint's brain latches onto the most terrifying part of that speech. “Nerve damage?” 

“It’s nothing that won’t heal,” Coulson reassures him, “but you need to sleep.” His palm radiates warmth throughout Clint’s chest. 

It feels _amazing_. Clint’s too tired to do anything but relax into that blissful feeling. 

“You need to sleep,” Coulson says again, sounding farther away this time. Despite his protests, Clint can already feel himself sliding back under. Not a lot of what Coulson has said makes sense – he’s pushed himself past his limits lots of time, half of them under orders from Trickshot. He’s always had a nap and awakened feeling tired but okay the next day. The words _nerve damage_ frighten him, though. He’s heard horror stories of bacta tanks before.

“Okay,” Clint says, and he knows his words are slurring. He closes his eyes, and falls asleep.

 

*

 

The next time he wakes up, Coulson is gone and there are medics coming and going with a regularity that suggests that on some planet somewhere it’s morning. Clint sits up and feels about a million times better, just like every other time he’s pushed himself past his limits. In the bustling light of day he remembers Phil’s words from last night and scoffs. Nerve damage? Please. He’s fine.

He snags a medico and sweet talks the man into letting Clint go. He really pours on the charm and the poor kid looks a little dazzled by the time he signs Clint’s datapad. Clint would feel bad, only he’s itching to move – there’s a note on his pad telling him he has a cabin on the ship once he’s been released from medical, and Clint wants a chance to check the place out. 

He’s not sure if the offer to join S.H.I.E.L.D. is still on the table, but Clint is going to assume that since he's still breathing and not in chains, it probably is. He hasn't been kicked off the ship, at least, and he's been given instructions not to do anything too strenuous. Clint salutes the medico with a grin before he leaves. 

The _Helicarrier Gold_ is a big ship. Clint would trade some serious sexual favours to see the schematics, trace the lines of the ship on a pad because from what he can see from this perspective, she’s beautiful. He takes his time walking to his cabin, eying the large, plas-steel viewports as he goes. He can’t decide if she would fly like a dream or turn like a whale.

It takes him more than few wrong turns to find his cabin, and only half of those wrong turns are on purpose. Clint assumes he’s still under surveillance, and he wants to see what he can get away with before someone comes running. The corridors are big and open, but Clint spots a number of ventilation shafts that look large enough to hold him. 

In his cabin, he finds the change of clothes from his second bolt-hole, which answers one of his questions, at least. Coulson either knew about his safe houses or he’s figured them out since Clint came on board. Either way, it’s a check in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s favour – Clint likes working for people smarter than him, so long as he keeps a few tricks up his own sleeve.

Always have an exit strategy. 

His bow is still folded on his wrist and his quiver is again on his back, but the rest of Clint’s equipment has been delivered to his room. His backpack is full of survival gear – a collapsible tent, electrobinoculars, and a multi-use pot with a built-in stove – as well as several smaller boxes that Clint carefully removes. They're heavier than they were when Clint last packed them, and he opens each of them with care. Inside, the raw materials his quiver uses to construct arrows have been replenished. Clint does a few calculations in his head and figures he could make four or five thousand arrows if he needed to – and more than half of them trick – with the supplies that he’s been given. 

It’s an expensive gift. Some of these materials come from quite a distance away – it might be nothing for the _Helicarrier Gold_ to collect them, but it would take Clint weeks to rebuild a collection this size.

He thinks Coulson would let him keep the supplies no matter what, if he asked. That, as much as anything said or done over the past day, makes Clint decide to trust S.H.I.E.L.D. There are a lot of bad people in the galaxy, and Clint has known more than a few of them first-hand. Coulson, Clint's sure, is not one of them.

He slips his quiver over his neck and lays it on the floor, then sets about transferring the bulk of the new materials into the casing. They even gave him a new powercell, fully charged, and Clint gratefully swaps it out for his old one. That done, he surveys the rest of the cabin he’s been given. It’s small, but functional, with a bathroom, desk and closet. 

He’s tired after his exploration. Activity is usually difficult for a day or two after he pushes himself. Clint removes his boots, set a few traps, and climbs into bed. 

It’s nothing special, and he’s certainly slept on better before, but it’s warm and the sheets are soft. Clint has trained himself to fall asleep in the oddest places, but it’s not difficult here. The _hum_ of the ventilation system lures him under, and within moments Clint is asleep.

 

*

 

When he wakes, Clint goes to find Coulson and give him his answer. The ship is huge, but it’s already growing familiar. Crew members are happy to point him towards Coulson’s office, and Clint memorizes the way. It’s not far from his cabin and equidistant to the range. Clint hasn’t seen that yet, but he’s itching to try the facilities. The schematic he’s managed to pull up on his datapad is unlabeled, but the big, long corridor could hardly be anything else.

Coulson is sitting at a large desk in his office, datapads scattered over the surface like they were on the medical bench yesterday. He looks up when Clint enters.

“I'm in,” Clint says. “S.H.I.E.L.D. sounds like it’s trying to be the good guys, and I’m willing to give this a shot. If I decide to leave, though, I don’t want anyone following me – the first person who does gets an arrow in an ass-cheek. The second gets a lot worse than that."

Coulson nods as if that's to be expected, and then stands and offers Clint his hand. “I can understand that. Mr. Barton, welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D.”

They shake. Coulson’s palm is warm and his grip is strong. Clint lets go before he can let himself hang on too long and flops down in the visitor's chair. It’s surprisingly comfortable. He leans back and puts his feet up on Coulson’s desk, crossing his hands behind his head. “Before I sign on the dotted lined though, I’d like an overview of what you people do. I’ve told you I’m in, and I am, but I want to know what’s expected of me.”

Coulson eyes his boots. “Common courtesy is expected of all field agents, junior agents, specialists, and even the Director, Barton.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Come on, Coulson. This _is_ me being courteous.”

Coulson meets his gaze. “I’m glad you trust me enough to relax in my presence,” he says dryly. “Now get your Hutt-damned boots off my desk.”

Clint grins and drops his feet. “Sure, boss, whatever you say. So, which of those do I get to be? Field agent, junior agent, specialist, director – ?”

Coulson snorts. “You don’t want to be Director, Barton. No one wants to be Director, not even Assistant Director Maria Hill, who does everything she can to ensure she never has to. Director Fury is forced to attend regular medical appointments quarterly so everyone is assured he will live many long and productive years to come.”

Clint laughs.

“Director Fury is in charge of S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Coulson explains, his own lips twitching. “Maria Hill is his second in command. Jasper Sitwell, whom you met yesterday, and I are Senior Agents, along with several others. Basic training qualifies you for the rank of Agent, but with your unique skills I am recommending you for the position of Specialist. We will focus on training in marksmanship – at which I am sure you will excel – as well as piloting, infiltration, espionage, and Force-related skills.”

Clint ignores the last bit and lifts his hand in the air. “I’m already a pilot.”

Coulson doesn’t hesitate. “Good, then we can cross-certify you on various ship designs and add that to your record.”

Clint frowns. “I have a record?”

Coulson smiles. “Barton, you have a file several datafields thick. Most of it consists of question marks, if that makes you feel any better.”

“It does,” Clint admits. “I like being an irresistible man of mystery.”

“Good thing that’s how I personally always think of you,” Phil says dryly and Clint chuckles. 

After Coulson gives him a quick overview of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s goals and aims, and what his role in them will be, Clint looks over the contract and does, eventually, sign on the dotted line. Medical clears him the next day and Clint starts training. It's difficult, which is actually pretty fun. He’s been active, and more so than usual these past three months with Coulson on his tail, but he hasn’t worked out for eight hours a day in _years_. Coulson lets him loose in the gym and watches him go wild. There’s better gymnastic equipment here than the circus ever had, and more of it, too. Clint wastes no time in climbing, twisting, and leaping from every piece of it he can find. Coulson only has two minor heart attacks. Clint considers that an acceptable start to his day.

The range is also ridiculously fun. Not only are there moving targets that keep Clint on his toes, but the range also occasionally fires back. Clint spends his days bouncing from one piece of cover to the next, swinging down from the ceiling and abolishing the target droids. Coulson shakes his head and says he has single handedly destroyed every record ever set within S.H.I.E.L.D. Clint grins and asks who owes Coulson money.

Quite a few people, as it turns out. Apparently S.H.I.E.L.D. likes to bet on new recruits who have been suckered into the organization. More than one person has put credits on Coulson’s pet project blowing up in his face, and Clint grins when several agents stop Coulson in the corridor to pass him his winnings.

Maria Hill just snorts and says she’s betting on the long game. She’s kind of an asshole, but she shows up during Clint’s training and gives him tips on his hand-to-hand skills. Clint can’t decide if he likes her or not, but he’s learning to respect the advice she gives him. Hand-to-hand is one of Clint’s weaker areas, and he can use all the help he can get.

Coulson doesn’t even mention Force training until Clint’s been on the ship for a solid month. They left Ralavi behind weeks ago, but that doesn’t stop Clint from eying the release hatch when Coulson sits him down in the range one morning and asks him for details regarding his Force skills. 

Clint nervously fiddles with his bow, not willing to pack it away again on his wrist. It’s been sticking more lately, and Clint wonders if he should give in and let the guys in R&D have a look at it. He mentions this to Coulson, who nods and says, “That’s probably a good idea, but right now I want to talk to you about your Force training.”

Clint swallows and finally puts his bow away. It gives him nothing to do with his hands, so he tries to mimic Coulson’s relaxed posture. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor and Clint joins him. He puts his hands on his knees like Coulson is doing and honestly does his best to talk.

It isn’t easy. 

“I – uh. I was picked up by Trickshot at the circus.” Clint says. “He tried to train me in the Force and it... didn’t work out so well. He showed me how to use the bow, and we focused on that instead. I was good at it, so that’s what we did.”

Coulson looks at him without judgment. “What do you mean, you weren’t ‘good’ at the Force?”

Clint shrugs, then realizes he’s picking at the knees of his pants and forces himself to stop. “Trickshot thought I would be like a Jedi – that’s why he chose me to be his apprentice, after all. We spent several weeks working on basic Force abilities before it became clear that I couldn’t manage any of them. Eventually, we gave up.”

Coulson nods, and Clint wonders with a sinking feeling if this is going to be it, if Coulson's going to realize what a waste of space Clint is and tell him thanks but no thanks on behalf of S.H.I.E.L.D.

“That’s not going to happen,” Coulson says evenly, and meets Clint’s eyes when he jerks. “You’ve more than proven that you have a place here, which is what I’m assuming you have been trying to do for the past several weeks. Your ability to use the Force has no impact on your performance as a member of this organization.”

Clint makes a face and looks away. “I hate it when you do that.”

Coulson half-smiles. “Give you a compliment?”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Do that freaky Jedi mind-reading thing.”

“I wasn’t reading your mind, Clint, I was reading your body language. It hasn’t been difficult to deduce what you’ve been up to these past few weeks.”

Clint feels a white-hot flash of anger. “So I’m easy to figure out, am I? Just another puzzle for you to solve?”

Coulson’s tone of voice never wavers. “I didn’t say that, and I don’t think it’s me that you’re really angry with. I think you’re angry at Trickshot, and at yourself.”

Clint bites his lip to stop himself from jumping up from the floor and running out of the room. That would be childish of him, and stupid. Clint has learned enough of Coulson by now to know that Coulson would just track him down and force him talk about this eventually, and next time they probably wouldn’t do it on the range.

At least Coulson let him have this. Clint tries to center himself, which is always easier to do here than anywhere else. On impulse, he unpacks his bow from his wrist again and wraps his hands around it. It calms him.

“I am angry at myself,” he admits without looking up. “I wanted to be – I don’t know how much you know about my history, Coulson,” he says instead, “but I wanted something better than what I had. Trickshot was the first person to tell me I could have it, if I worked hard enough.”

“But no matter how hard you worked, you couldn’t master the Force,” Coulson guesses.

Clint nods, thankful that Coulson said it so he doesn’t have to. “Yeah. I tried, every day, even after Trickshot told me not to bother. I practiced and practiced, but I could never do the simplest things. At least with the bow, I got better – with the Force I never did.”

“And yet look what you’ve been able to achieve,” Coulson says in that same hypnotically even tone. “You created a Force cocoon that fooled several highly trained operatives, not to mention a Sith Lord. You managed to block your emotions from me even when you were exhausted and on the verge of collapse. Those are some serious skills.”

Clint snorts. “Hardly. That leader guy knew where I was hiding – he blocked my original kill shot without any warning.” 

Coulson shakes his head. “That wasn’t your fault, Clint, it was mine. We didn’t realize you were up there – we scanned the area and couldn’t sense you at all. My agents were grouping for an attack, and _we_ were the ones who warned the Sith Lord. If we hadn’t, he would never have been able to defend himself against your initial strike.”

Clint looks up, surprised, and Coulson meets his eyes. He holds them. “You are strong in the Force, Clint Barton. Your abilities might not be geared towards large, flashy light shows, but you have abilities nonetheless. I do not know a single person, Jedi or otherwise, who can hide so fully from such a concentrated search. How did you do it?”

Clint wants to look away, but he can’t. Coulson doesn’t look angry or upset. His gaze is strong and powerful, and proud. Clint can’t help but bask in it. “I don’t know,” he answers. “I just – sort of feel around for the edges of the Force until I can see them. There are these tiny strands that are all that I can manage, and I sort of knot them together in a cloak around me.” Memory bubbles up. “I learned to knit from this fortune-teller at Tiboldt's,” he confesses. “Madame Dufraine made my costume with this sparkly purple fabric and I picture it like that, like I’m weaving the strands of the Force together.”

“Sparkly purple uniform, you say,” Coulson says with a smile. “I’ll have to find an old holoflyer of that.”

“Oh, please, Force _no_ ,” Clint laughs. “It was awful. Don’t get me wrong, purple is a fantastic colour, but there was this cowl and mask and - no. Definitely not.”

They share a grin for a moment, and then Coulson says, “Can you show me this Force weaving you do?” 

Clint wants to hate Coulson for manipulating him like this – get him laughing and remembering happier times, and then spring this kind of a question on him. But his manipulation has worked, because Clint has relaxed the death-grip he had on his bow. He takes a few deep breaths, but nods.

Coulson just sits back and waits. Clint thinks he could leave the range and come back in an hour, or twelve hours, or two days – and Coulson would still be here, waiting.

He’s never had anybody who paid attention to him like this. Clint thinks he could get used to it.

He’s a little afraid he already has.

Closing his eyes, Clint takes another deep breath and centers himself around his bow. He hasn’t done much with the Force since he came aboard the _Helicarrier Gold_ , which is pretty much standard for him. Clint doesn’t use his meager Force abilities unless he’s on a contract, and those are usually weeks apart. Practice always makes him long for better days, and he ends more bitter and disjointed than he began.

But better days are here, with Coulson waiting patiently for Clint to show him what he can do, a full range at his back, and a square meal in his belly. This isn’t like the circus, Clint tells himself. It’s _not._

Reaching outwards, Clint feels for the strands of the Force around him. As he concentrates, they slowly strengthen in his mind, until Clint can see the Force as a warm, glowing net that wraps around him, curving, as it always does, very slightly towards all living things. 

He lets himself sink into that net for a moment, balancing himself on the threads like he would before a difficult shot. It’s peaceful here, calm. Clint’s hands clench around the curve of his bow for a moment, reassuring himself that it's there, and then he releases the breath he’s been holding and starts to weave with the strands of the Force.

He has the time now to do it right – nobody's shooting at him or forcing him to do this on the fly. It’s easier than it usually is, without the commotion in the background. Here, there is only the hum of the ventilation equipment and the steady breathing of Coulson in front of him. It’s nice.

Clint finishes his weaving and opens his eyes. The world looks the same to him, but Coulson is staring at him – _through_ him.

“This is so strange,” he says quietly, one hand coming up hesitantly to hover in the air in front of Clint’s chest. “I can see you, I can hear you, but I can’t _feel_ you.” His hand comes up and taps Clint on the nose. Clint snorts and Coulson smiles. He lowers his hand. “Can you unravel it, now?”

Clint nods and releases his hold on the Force. The strands snap back to their original positions and Clint blinks. His awareness of the Force fades. Coulson is still staring at him. “Did that hurt at all? Any headache?”

Clint shakes his head. “No – nothing.” He hesitates. “Do you mean that you can feel the Force all the time? Without concentrating?”

Coulson nods. “Everyone has their own relationship to the Force. Some people see it as colors, others as a buzzing on their skin. I feel it as a pressure on my mind, a warm glow that's centered around living things. When you hid yourself, that glow went away. It was very bizarre.”

Clint bites his lip. “For me, when I concentrate, I can kind of – _see_ – the strands of the Force.”

“Is that something you’ve always been able to do or is it something you’ve picked up since the circus?” 

“Something I’ve picked up,” Clint admits. “I never used to be able to see anything, though I could kind of feel the strings, sometimes. Even once I could see it, though, I couldn’t do much with the Force – not the kind of stuff Trickshot said was useful to do.”

Coulson’s face doesn’t change, but something darkens behind his eyes. “I think there were several things Mr. Trickshot got wrong, and that is certainly one of them. The Force is not inherently ‘useful’ – it is an energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us and penetrates us – it binds the galaxy together. The ability to _manipulate_ the Force is a handy ability, but it is like any other skill – it does not define us.”

Clint wants to believe him, but he doesn’t know how. Clint has always defined himself by what he can and can't do. Being useful is the only thing that’s kept him fed. “Skills are important. If you're fighting someone who has the Force as an ally, you’re pretty much dead.”

Coulson frowns and leans forward, resting his hand gently on Clint’s knee. “Listen to me, Clint,” he says seriously, waiting until Clint looks up and meets his eyes. “There are ways to beat a trained Force-sensitive in a fight. I will teach you those ways and you will learn them. You should _never_ feel powerless against another person.” He holds Clint’s gaze until Clint nods, and then he leans back. “You aren't wrong, though, being able to manipulate the Force is a something that only certain people can do. That does not make them better than other people - in fact, it very often makes them worse. Why do you think the Jedi Order has so many rules? They need their members to understand that the power of the Force is not the power of a god.”

Clint’s knee feels warm under Coulson’s hand, but he doesn’t do anything to dislodge him. “What about the Sith?”

“The Sith have it wrong, just as they always have,” Coulson says firmly. “HYDRA seeks to combine Force-sensitive individuals with people who don’t have that ability, to gain control over all dominions of life. They seek to take over the galaxy and enforce their laws on other people. That we do not condone.”

Clint nods to show he understands, and Coulson holds his eyes for a moment before letting go. Clint tries not to show how much he misses Coulson’s touch, but he’s not sure how successful he is. Coulson doesn’t betray that he knows in his face or his body language, so Clint tries to put it out of his mind.

They focus on Force-specific training for the next several weeks. Coulson teaches Clint how to call the strands to mind with barely a thought. The training is worlds away from how Clint was taught in the past – Coulson is never spiteful or angry with him. He doesn’t call Clint worthless or get upset when Clint can’t do the simplest things. He just quietly, calmly, adjusts Clint’s focus, directing him in subtle ways, and the effect is extraordinary.

It becomes so much easier for Clint to call upon the Force. He learns how to disappear from Coulson's senses in the blink of an eye. He can run from one piece of gym equipment to the other and vanish in the air when he leaps. He can’t become physically invisible, but he can convince most people around him that he does not exist. Anyone doing a concentrated visual search can find him, but he learns to hide easily in a crowd.

It works best against Force-sensitives like Coulson, but even regular humans seem to skip over him when Clint puts his mind to it. They move their practices from the gym to the rest of the _Helicarrier Gold_ and Clint trails Coulson all around the ship. He practices hiding and sneaking into areas where only Coulson has access.

After several weeks of practice, no one even glances at him, not even when Clint is somewhere he shouldn’t be. The effect is lost if he makes a noise or does something outrageous, but Clint has always been good at moving silently. 

Coulson is quietly pleased with him. He never mentions being disappointed by the things Clint still can’t do – he has no physical abilities with the Force, and can’t manipulate objects or generate a Force wave. He still practices with his bow every day, he’s getting better at hand-to-hand combat, and his improved control and awareness of the Force is bleeding into his other training. Clint finds he's able to sense and dodge attacks with an instinct he’s never possessed before.

Clint knows his training is going well, but he doesn’t think he’s ready for a mission yet. Coulson surprises him, though. Clint comes into the gym one morning to find Coulson in his usual suit, an electronic folder held in one hand. 

“We have a situation,” Coulson says. “Tony Stark is missing.”


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another heartfelt THANK YOU to my wonderful beta team. You are all fabulous!!

Clint blinks in surprise. “Tony Stark? As in Stark of Stark Industries? That Tony Stark?”

Coulson nods. He looks serious. “Yes. He was doing a demonstration of weapons capabilities on Tatooine when he was kidnapped by an unknown element.”

“What the hell was he doing on Tatooine? I thought SI refused to deal with the Hutts?”

“That was our understanding as well,” Coulson agrees. “Under Obadiah Stane, SI has been making some questionable business decisions, but the elder Mr. Stark was quite vehement about his refusal to work with that particular criminal element.” Coulson shrugs. “Our information is spotty at best. The _Helicarrier Gold_ is being deployed to the system to learn more about the situation. You and I will go in as one of the teams on the ground.” 

Clint isn’t sure what that means. “What’s our mission?”

“Ultimately?” Coulson asks. “To find and rescue Tony Stark. We suspect this kidnapping is for ransom – one of our agents is staying close to Obadiah Stane in case the kidnappers make contact. The rest of us are hitting the sand.”

Clint nods. He feels nervous, and automatically tries to cover it up. The corners of Coulson’s mouth twitch – he might not be able to _feel_ Clint’s emotions when he cloaks himself anymore, but he’s very good at guessing.

“We’ve been training now for six weeks, Clint, and we won’t be the primary team on the ground. We’re going in as backup. You’ve done this kind of mission before, when you were being paid as a mercenary. If it makes you feel more comfortable, though, you could pretend I’m a client hiring you to find the location of Tony Stark.”

Clint chuckles, some of his tension easing. “That actually does make things easier. Okay, I’m in. When will we arrive?”

Coulson checks his datapad. “In approximately twelve hours.”

Clint leaves to head back to his quarters and check his equipment. He paces a little, but it’s not enough, so he ends up spending the majority of their time in transit in the gym. Coulson joins him, but he doesn’t exercise to work off nervous energy. Instead, he sits in the corner and focuses on his screens and datapads, tapping and typing while Clint does jumps and throws. 

As he practices, Clint mentally reviews everything he knows about Tatooine. There's quite a bit – Clint has done several jobs on that planet before, even if he hasn’t particularly enjoyed any of them. It’s basically impossible to be a mercenary and _not_ end up in Mos Eisley at some point. Thankfully, Clint’s managed to stay away from the Hutts in the past, but every deal that happens in the system crosses their grubby fingers one way or another. 

Tatooine is a strange planet – according to local legend it was once a jungle paradise, but an orbital bombardment thousands of years ago boiled away the oceans and glassed the world. No one really wanted it, so the criminals had moved in. The Old Republic had built several outposts in the desert but most had been abandoned and consumed by the sands. Even now, the Galactic Alliance maintains a minimal presence on-world, and it's generally believed that all officials are under the thumb of the Hutts.

Clint hates the sand – it grates and gets into everything. His bow had needed a complete overall after his last job there. Sam does good trade through Tatooine, though - the locals always need something they can't get on-world.

Thinking about Sam makes Clint smile – he’d sent Sam a wave a few weeks ago, once his situation with S.H.I.E.L.D. felt more secure. Sam had spent most of his time after Ralavi fretting, and he hadn’t appreciated being kept in the dark for so long. He’d tried to hide his concern over the open com, but Clint could tell. He hadn’t been able to tell his friend much, but Clint had assured him he was out of danger and ‘on a long term job.’ 

Actually, contacting Sam again would probably be a good idea. Clint swings down from the gym equipment and walks over to his handler. 

“Hey Coulson, if we’re heading to Tatooine, I’d like to make a call to Sam on the _Falcon_. He might have some contacts we could use.”

Coulson looks up from his datapads. “Sam Wilson?”

Clint grins. Trust Coulson to know everything. “Yeah. He does a lot of trade through Tatooine.”

“I imagine he does,” Coulson agrees. “That’s a good idea. Would you like to use the private com in my office? You could encrypt the transmission.”

Clint appreciates the thought. “That's a good idea. I'd like to keep the Hutts off Sam’s back.”

Coulson nods and stands, collecting his various pads. He leads Clint from the unrestricted gym area to the more heavily secured upper decks. Clint could probably have made it all the way on his own, thanks to Coulson’s training, but it’s probably a good idea not to get in trouble before his first mission as an agent of S.H.I.E.LD.

Coulson shows Clint the comm terminal and nods to him before leaving, closing the door and locking it behind him. Clint smiles at the courtesy. Coulson is always like that, polite and courteous, well bred and kind. Clint wonders, not for the first time, where Phil comes from and how he was trained. Clint has asked, but Coulson has always deflects the question. Clint doesn't know if it's classified or if Coulson just doesn't like talking about himself, and out of respect for the man, he hasn't pushed.

Not that it matters. Where Coulson is from wouldn’t change who he is, and that he’s one of the best men Clint’s ever known.

Shaking the thought from his mind, Clint activates the comm unit. It takes a few minutes, but the _Helicarrier Gold_ is in hyperspace and the signal reflects without incident. Clint programs the computers for a mid-level encrypt – he doesn’t want to attract the kind of attention a military-grade code would garner. It only takes a moment for the _Falcon_ ’s systems to decode it. 

“Hey Sam, how's she flying?” Clint asks, when the waiting static dissolves into Sam’s familiar face.

“Smooth as the day we built her,” Sam replies. He grins. “Good to see you, man. How’s your long-term investment panning out?”

“Going alright so far,” Clint acknowledges. He has to admit that S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t quite what he was expecting, but things are better now than they’ve ever been. Clint still has an exit strategy, of course, but it's getting harder to remember what it is. “I’m heading to some familiar territory on a job, actually. I was wondering if I could name-drop while I’m there.”

“Always,” Sam promises him. “Where you going?”

“To the ass end of the galaxy,” Clint says with a grin, “where they know you special.”

“Aw, shit, man – Tatooine?” Sam chuckles. “You poor schmuck.”

Clint laughs. “You know me, a glutton for trouble.”

“You’re a glutton for everything, Barton, don’t think I don’t know this.” Sam sighs. “Be careful, though, there’s a new player on the Outer Rim.”

Clint frowns. He hasn’t heard much of HYDRA lately. “Is this the same group that hit Ralavi?”

Sam shakes his head. “No, those guys got taken out by the Council, but the rumour is they all report to the same higher-ups. These assholes call themselves the ‘Ten Rings’.” Sam makes a face. “They’re bad news.”

“How are they operating on Tatooine? I thought Jabba’a’y’a still owned that world?”

Sam shrugs. “The word is, the Ten Rings made a deal with the Hutts. They aren’t interested in gambling or slaves, just the weapons trade.”

“Bantha crap,” Clint swears. “My employer’s hiring me for a job involving Tony Stark. Does SI have anything to do with weapons trade through Tatooine?”

Sam frowns. “I haven’t heard anything, but that would make sense.”

“Too much,” Clint agrees. 

“You got backup?” Sam asks. “I don’t like the idea of you heading into that much of a mess on your own. I can – ”

“No,” Clint cuts him off. “No, I don’t want you anywhere near this. I’ve got backup,” he promises. “Actually - if I send you a profile, do you think you could swear to whoever comes calling that you recommended him to me as a slab of muscle?”

“Of course,” Sam says. “Send me the wave.”

“On its way.”

 

*

 

“I feel conspicuous,” Coulson argues. From anyone else, the slightly annoyed tone would be a whine. 

Clint grins. “You look perfect.”

Too perfect, actually. The white shirt clings to Coulson’s chest like an invitation to touch. It’s a good thing the transport they’re on sways alarmingly and Clint has to grab a stack of boxes to keep his balance, or he’d be in serious trouble. The black leather jacket emphasizes the breadth of Coulson’s shoulders and the form-fitting pants show off his ass. The blaster holster riding low on his hips adds a slink to his walk, which Clint very much approves.

“You’re going to stand out no matter what,” Clint reasons, trying to keep the want from his voice. “You might as well make an impression while you do.”

Coulson glares. “On undercover missions I usually try to blend in. I’m very good at it.”

“I’m sure you are,” Clint assures him, “but no one in any criminal syndicate trusts an outsider. If we’re going in, we have to look the part.”

Coulson fidgets with his open collar. “When you wear stuff like this, it looks natural.”

“That’s because it is,” Clint says with a shrug. It feels good to be in his usual outfit again, with his quiver over one shoulder and his bow packed tightly on his wrist. The clothes had been washed, so Clint had spent the morning running and jumping in them, adding some of his usual ‘lived in’ look. If they were going to any other planet, Clint would have found some dirt and roughed them up a little, but the sand-carrying winds of Tatooine will coat them both the moment they step on-world. 

It’s going to be hell on his bow. Clint almost considers leaving it on the _Helicarrier Gold_ , but he doesn’t think he can. As well as he can use a blaster, he’s not as comfortable with one. He’s spent enough time on Tatooine to work around the sand and wind – his bow might need a complete overhaul after, but he won’t miss.

Besides, Ooben would probably think he was an imposter, if he showed up without his bow. The bartender doesn't like change.

Coulson fidgets a little more, but a shiver runs through the deck and distracts them both. They’ve left the _Helicarrier Gold_ on Ryloth, a short light-speed burst away, and caught a transport to Tatooine. Clint hasn’t met the other S.H.I.E.L.D. teams, but he knows they’re each taking a different route into the system.

The transport they’re on is sketchy at best – it belongs to a firm that shuttles people and goods all over the Outer Rim, and looks to be on its last legs. Clint is honestly concerned that they’re going to crash before they hit the spaceport, but either the pilot is more talented than Clint’s assumed, or the transport has been purposely roughed up to decrease the chances of theft. Either way, they make it to Mos Eisley in one piece. 

They land and the hatch wheezes open, spilling too-bright light into the hold. Clint and Coulson disembark just as the pilot comes around to start off-loading her original cargo. Clint tips the Devaronian a little extra to keep her mouth shut, knowing full well the coin is too little to do anything but encourage the opposite. 

The chances of the two of them finding the Ten Rings without getting shot is less than zero. Clint knows the best thing they can do is make enough of a quiet ruckus that someone comes looking for them.

Coulson hadn't approved of the plan, but Clint had pointed out that this was why S.H.I.E.L.D. recruited him. He knows how things work on the Outer Rim. Coulson had looked frustrated, but he hadn’t been able to disagree.

It doesn’t take long to walk to the cantina. Tatooine is just as loud, dusty, and abrasive as it's always been. Vendors hawk their wares down narrow alleys, every second door is sealed shut against the ever-present sand, and Jawas chatter together as they travel in groups of two or three. Beings from hundreds of different worlds do business in the streets, laughing, pushing, arguing, and squawking their way to a deal. Clint maneuvers his way through it with ease. 

He knows better than to look over his shoulder to make sure Coulson hasn’t gotten lost. There are always eyes around the spaceport, people looking for information or just an easy mark. Clint can’t afford to show weakness. He does catches sight of Coulson’s reflection in a passing speeder, though. Coulson's eyes are focused on the back of Clint’s head, and Clint smiles. Coulson looks dangerous as he strides through the mix of beings, his expression tight and focused. Clint feels a thrill go through him – he'd forgotten, at some point during the past several weeks, how absolutely deadly Coulson can be in a fight. 

This man, the one people make way for in the crowd, is the one Clint had first seen from a rooftop on Ralavi. He likes Coulson as he usually is, relaxing on the _Helicarrier Gold_ in his ancient suits, but this man – this badass warrior – is even better.

Clint grins. The Ten Rings won't know what hit them.

They reach the cantina without incident. Clint leads the way inside, Coulson a half-step behind him. Ooben looks up as they enter and lifts his trunk in the Ortolan expression of welcome.

“Hawkeye,” he says, when Clint crosses the floor to the bar. The cantina – it’s Chalmun’s Spaceport Cantina, but no one knows who Chalmun is anymore – is full, like usual. There’s a live band playing in the corner and a game of sabacc going on in the back. Aliens of every shape and description meander around the bar, most clutching violently frothing drinks. 

Ooben glances behind Clint, indicating Coulson with a wave of one violet-dyed hand. “Who's the muscle?”

Clint makes a face and sits down at the bar. “Sam lent him to me. You know how he gets.” 

Ooben snorts. “A regular mother hen, that one.”

Clint grins. “Exactly.” He nods at the various taps and glasses. “I’ll have my regular.”

Ortolians shouldn’t be able to roll their eyes, but Ooben makes a good attempt. “You come here twice a cycle, Barton. I don’t remember what your regular is.”

“Sure you do,” Clint says, playing along. “That’s why I tip so good.”

“Your tips are bantha crap,” Ooben huffs, but he starts mixing drinks. “Does your man want anything?”

“Nah.” Clint replies without bothering to ask. He can feel Coulson at his shoulder, scanning the bar. It's not a Force-thing, but rather a hyper-awareness of Coulson's presence. “Not while he’s working.”

“Keeping your soft white ass safe, Barton? Sounds like a full time job.”

“That’s what Sam said. I told him I was coming to this shit hole, and he got all pissy. Said the sands were getting too dangerous for good honest boys like me.”

Ooben snorts again, but he lifts his trunk in concern. “Sam’s a smart guy. If I were you, I’d abandon whatever contract brought you here and skip town. Bad men have been coming around lately.”

Clint lowers his voice. “Sam said something about a power shift – the Hutts giving up weapons running to some new organization.” He shakes his head. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Ooben glances around the bar, then leans in close. “You’re assuming the Ten Rings gave them a choice. The Hutts have a problem with Jedi, Barton. They still remember what happened to Jabba’a’y’a’s paternal sac.” He flicks his trunk in a grimace. “The long lived races – they don’t forget.”

“There’s no way the Jedi Council is smuggling weapons,” Clint protests.

Ooben shrugs. “Jedi. Sith. What’s the difference? Powerful beings with lightsabers, coming in here and making demands. The Hutts have acquiesced for now, but they aren’t happy.”

“So – hypothetically – if I wanted to go against the Ten Rings, I should talk to the Hutts.”

Ooben stares at him, his beady eyes flashing. “You are a sick man, Clint Barton. No one goes against the Ten Rings and survives.”

“Nonsense – you’re just saying that because no one ever has.” Clint grins and leans back. “Hey, I’m not looking for trouble,” he says in a louder voice. “If you tell me I should go, I'll go. I think I'll play some sabacc first, though.”

Clint can feel Coulson shift behind him, but Ooben knows his game. He lifts his trunk in a smile. “Oh, really, is that all you want?”

Clint shrugs. “You’re right,” he says, “the contract is stupid. Stark Industries can offer all the credits it wants, no one is going to find their missing heir. But while I’m here, I might as well have some fun. Come on, Ooben. You always know where the best sabacc games are in town.”

Ooben clearly thinks he’s crazy, but Clint has been tipping him well for years now. “You’re horrible at sabacc, Barton,” he says, playing along. “I should send you back to your transport and save you the credits.”

“It’s my money, Ooben, and I’m getting better.”

Ooben snorts. “Sure you are. What the hell.” He shakes his head and points to the backroom. “Guy by the name of Krusk has been coming here for weeks now. He’s probably bored with the local fish.”

Translation – he works for the Hutts, and business has been slow since the Ten Rings moved into town. Clint grins at Ooben and drops a large tip on the bar. “Thanks, Ooben. You’re the best.”

Ooben lifts his trunk. “Just don’t come crying to me when you lose your shirt,” he says, “and don’t think I’m opening a tab for you again – you aren’t that pretty, Barton.”

Clint grins and stands up from the bar. “I absolutely am,” he argues. “I would stand here and debate that with you, but I have some credits to win.”

“Credits to lose, you mean,” Ooben says, but doesn't try and stop him. 

Coulson hasn’t moved from his place at Clint’s shoulder, but he steps back to give Clint room as he moves. He follows Clint as he makes his way around the bar, angling for the back corner and the sabacc table he can see there. The droid manning the game is currently dealing cards while the players wait with their credits ready. Clint stops at the edge of the table and hooks his fingers into his belt. 

“Hello, there. Which of you is Krusk?”

One of the human males shrugs a shoulder, but doesn’t bother looking up. The other three players ignore him. The sabacc table ripples as a randomization pulse is sent through the cards. “Who's asking?”

Clint grins. “I am. Name’s Clint Barton. Got some down time on my schedule and an idea of how to spend it.”

Krusk raises an eyebrow, but doesn't otherwise move. The other three beings at the table look up. There’s a female Rodian, a male Twi’lek, and another human male. Clint doesn’t recognize any of them. He wonders if Coulson will sense something, but Clint’s forced to use common sense instead. The Rodian and the human have the lived-in look of Tatooine regulars, while the Twi’lek looks everywhere except at Krusk. Clint would lay money that they're working together. 

If he gets into the game, he probably will.

“You any good?” Krusk asks. He gestures, and the players bet. 

Clint watches the hand. “Pretty good,” he says. 

Krusk finishes his play and the game moves into calls. The round quickly cycles through the shifting and drawing phase, and then the cards are laid on the table. Another randomization pulse goes through the game right before the end, and two people curse.

Krusk wins and takes the hand pot. The sabacc pot is still brimming. 

Finally, Krusk looks up. Clint studies his face, knowing Coulson behind him is doing the same. 

It’s an average face, older than Clint is, and weathered in the way everyone living here gets. Tatooine will do that to you, but Clint thinks he sees other stresses behind Krusk’s eyes. This is a man who enjoys working for the Hutts, Clint thinks, and really doesn’t care for the Ten Rings. Clint wonders why. 

Krusk nods at the Rodian, who obediently shuffles over. “Have a seat.”

Clint grins and does as he’s told. Behind him, Coulson takes up position at Clint’s right shoulder. 

“Cloud City Casino rules,” Krusk says, indicating the cards. “No skifters. Bets go to the droid. Interference field is active.”

Clint nods and takes his seat at the table. The dealer droid logs him in as entering the game.

The next two hours pass swiftly. Clint focuses on his cards and the other players, glad for Coulson at his back, and the bar fills and empties around them. After Bombing Out for the third time, the Rodian leaves with a curse. They play with four for a while until a human female wanders in, greets Krusk, and sits down to the game.

Clint himself is doing well – which is to say, he’s losing on purpose. The key to gaining trust with sabacc, Clint’s learned, is to win just enough to stay in the game. He loses sometimes to the human woman and sometimes to the Rodian before she leaves, but most of his money ends up in the hands of the Twi’lek or Krusk himself. 

He makes them work for it, but the truth is that Krusk is very good. He must play a lot of sabacc. Clint’s pretty sure the man’s gambled professionally. The table is old and the cards sometimes flicker, but Clint’s fairly confident that no one around the table is actively cheating.

It takes time, but after Krusk has taken enough of his money, he starts to loosen up. Clint chats about random things throughout the game, throwing out enough information about himself and the worlds he’s worked on that if Krusk hadn’t recognized his name before, he probably does by now. Clint isn’t exactly famous, but there aren’t a lot of bounty hunters who use a bow. He’s pretty unique in that way.

His reputation should do the rest. Clint mentions that he’s worked on Tatooine before, but admits to never doing business with the Hutts. He drops a few lines about them not being trustworthy, and thinks he sees a glimmer of amusement on Krusk’s weathered face. 

Clint remarks that these new guys, though, these Ten Rings, seem like bad news. “They make the Hutts look like the good guys,” Clint says, and watches the Twi’lek scowl. 

“The Hutts aren’t stupid,” Krusk replies, after an hour and a half of Clint wearing away at his silence. “They know what they can get, and you know that they always want more. That's fair enough for my money.”

“I guess that doesn't apply to these Ten Rings assholes, then,” Clint says. He shakes his head and slides two cards into the inference ring. “A friend of mine warned me away from dealing with them, says they’ll screw you over without a second glance. That’s no way to do business.”

“No it ain’t,” Krusk grunts. “Lightsaber wielding freaks.”

“Ah, shit,” Clint says, looking up, “are they’re actually Sith? I just thought everyone was crazy.”

Krusk shakes his head. “No crazier than usual. Why do you think the Hutts let them in? Not a lot they can do about it, at least, not yet. The Ten Rings are only interested in weapons – might as well give them what they want for now.”

“I heard what they want is Tony Stark,” Clint says.

“You’re behind the times, kid,” Krusk says. They play the round and Krusk takes his money with a smile. “They’ve already got him.”

“For what, ransom?” Clint asks, shaking his head. “I know SI can pay, but it seems like too much trouble.”

“You would think,” Krusk agrees, but then shrugs. “Stark is by all accounts an asshole, and a rich one, which makes it worse, but they say the man’s a genius. If I had Tony Stark in my basement, I know what I’d be doing with him.”

Clint frowns at his cards as they shift. “What?”

“Making weapons,” Krusk says darkly. “They say the Jericho missile can take out half a continent, if you aim it right. Lot of people would go through the hassle of kidnapping Tony Stark if he could make you that.”

“Well, SI is paying a lot of people to get him back,” Clint says, putting down his cards. He wins the hand and Krusk frowns, but hands over his money. The Twi’lek and the woman do the same. It’s a small hand, but it keeps Clint in the game. 

“I’m not saying I’m stupid enough to take the contract,” Clint goes on, “but there are a lot of other people out there who might. The Ten Rings has brought a world of hurt onto itself with his kidnapping.”

No one says anything until the droid deals and the next hand begins. Clint frowns at his near-perfect pure sabacc hand – he’ll have to hope most of it gets randomized away. 

“I’m surprised the Hutts aren’t paying double, is all I’m saying,” Clint goes on, sighing with relief as a pulse goes through the deck and his hand shifts into something less likely to win the sabacc pot. He's not quite ready for that yet. “If I were them, anything that could hurt the Ten Rings would be good for me.”

“Who says they aren’t?” Krusk challenges. The round continues and the Twi’lek wins. 

“Well if they are,” Clint says slowly, “then a handout of that size might be worth it. I mean, it would get Stark away from the Ten Rings, which would make the Hutts happy, and as long as Stark gets delivered home in one piece, SI would pay. Who knows? If someone could get Stark out alive, he might even have information on how the Ten Rings operates. Might give the Hutts the edge needed to take back their territory.”

The Twi’lek looks over, but Krusk just grunts. “Still a suicide mission.”

Clint shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not. Sometimes it’s worth it, you know?” He figures the time is right and slips two cards into the inference field. The shifting phase ends, and the table draws. Clint grins at his hand before laying it on the table.

“Idiot’s Array,” he says and takes the sabacc pot. The woman groans, but Krusk smiles. He’s won more in the hand pots than Clint makes taking the sabacc pot, but Clint’s winning ends the game. The Twi’lek has come out even. Clint would have lost most of his money if he hadn’t won with the Idiot’s Array. 

“Good game,” Krusk says. He sticks out a hand and Clint shakes it. His grip is rough, but firm. “If you want to play again, meet me at the _Bounty_ later on,” he says, referring to the Hutt-controlled dive across town. “I’ll set you up with some folks.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Clint says, grinning. “Thanks for the game.”

Clint stands up and walks away, tipping Ooben at the bar again before he leaves. Coulson stays at his shoulder the entire time, watching the crowd with a bodyguard’s eyes. They don’t say a word until Clint has taken cheap lodgings on the edge of town and they’ve scanned the apartment for bugs.

“You lost on purpose,” Coulson says, when they’ve finally cleared the area and activated an interference droid.

“I lost the hand pots on purpose,” Clint corrects. “I won the sabacc pot in the end.”

“You earned their trust with money,” Coulson agrees. “A bribe would have been quicker.”

Clint shrugs. “Yeah, but then I wouldn’t have had the chance to talk with them. Bribes grease the wheels, but they don't get the juice. People like Krusk are too well paid to give away much. I guarantee I wouldn’t have gotten that invitation to the _Bounty_ if I’d just bribed him.”

Coulson thinks about it, then nods. “I imagine not. What now?”

Clint looks at him in surprise. “What do you mean? Isn’t that your call?”

“You’re the one familiar with the situation, Barton,” Coulson points out. “You’ve planned every aspect of this mission so far, and things are proceeding as you have foreseen. I’m not about to take back control when you obviously know what you’re doing. The other teams have checked in, and no one has made the progress we have. I’m content to leave you in charge.”

Clint stares at his handler. “Huh.”

Coulson smiles. “You don’t trust me to trust you?”

“I - I don’t know,” Clint says with a blink. “I guess I figured it was a little early for that.”

“I trust you, Barton,” Coulson says with a genuine smile. “You haven’t let me down yet.”

Clint can't hide the warm glow the words of praise give him, but he does get it under control quickly. “Um, okay. Well, the next part of the plan should probably be two-fold. First we do some recon around town and look into the standard pre-mission things – weather patterns, equipment purchasing, that kind of thing. While we do, we keep our eyes peeled for the Ten Rings. They’re bound to have someone in town watching people, probably more than one, and we’ve dropped enough hints today that they’ll most likely find us before we find them.”

Coulson nods. “That makes sense. So, if they do find us, what do we do?” 

“Well, if we are approached by someone, we go with them without making too much fuss. Refuse to hand over your weapon, though – no one would do that, not on Tatooine. If they offer us money to stay away from Tony Stark, we take it and promise that we will. That’s standard, too.”

Coulson snorts.

Clint grins and goes on. “If they trail us without approaching, though, then we do nothing out of the ordinary. There’s no point taking prisoners or trying to find out where they might be hiding Tony Stark – not yet. For one thing, the goons trailing us probably won’t know, and we have a contact in Krusk now. I’d bet the ruins of Dantooine that the Hutts know exactly where Stark is, but have been too afraid of the Ten Rings to go in after him.”

Coulson frowns. “I wouldn’t have thought the Hutts would be afraid.”

“Ooben is right – the Hutts are a long lived race, and they don’t forget. Jabba’a’y’a lost his father to Leia Skywalker, and his kind have been wary of Jedi ever since. They’re disgusting slaving slugs, the Hutts, but they take the long view. They think that if they give up some minor territory now, they can take it back later. They live for thousands of years, after all. The Ten Rings are nothing they haven't faced before.”

Coulson nods. “So no matter what, we meet with Krusk tomorrow?”

“Yeah, that’s what I think,” Clint agrees. “What are the other teams up to?”

Coulson shrugs. “Encrypted notes indicate that they’ve tailed a few suspected Ten Rings supporters, but no one has gotten anywhere close to Tony Stark.”

“So we’re in the lead?” Clint asks with a grin.

Coulson chuckles. “It’s not a race, Barton, but yes.”

“Nice,” Clint says, satisfied. “Anyways, so - we’ll see what happens. If the Ten Rings approaches us and we take some money off of them, perfect, but no matter what, we’ll meet Krusk at the _Bounty_ tomorrow and see what he has to say. I bet he offers to match the price SI is offering to go after Tony Stark.”

“I see two problems with that plan,” Coulson points out. “The first is, what do we do if the Ten Rings start shooting at us while we’re out shopping this afternoon? And the second - Stark Industries hasn’t actually offered any money for the return of Tony Stark.”

Clint frowns. “Yeah, and that’s the weird thing. I mean, they should have, right? Everyone believed me the instant I said they did. That would be the normal thing to do.”

“It would have been,” Coulson agrees. “That’s one reason why we have someone installed at SI; we need to keep an eye on Obadiah Stane.” 

Clint blinks, surprised. “You think he’s involved in this?”

Coulson shrugs. “The Director suspects he might be. We’re waiting on word from the criminal side of things.”

“Huh,” Clint says, and then purses his lips. “Well, to answer point number one – if someone starts to shoot at us, we shoot back. We’re on Tatooine, after all.”

Coulson nods. “And if it’s Krusk?”

Clint shakes his head. “It won’t be – he hates the Ten Rings, and we’re the best thing the Hutts have going for them right now. They’ll offer us the job.”

“I’d bet you on that,” Coulson says with a smile, “but I happen to think you’re right. So – shopping?”

Clint grins. “Shopping.”

 

*

 

They leave the apartment and walk over to the weather office, checking in regarding up-currents, down-currents, or any on-the-horizon sandstorms. The information is available as a wave, but Clint prefers to do things face to face. The weather office always has the latest gossip. 

It takes Clint a second to match a name to the face currently on duty - it helps that he doesn’t actually know many Pa’lowicks. “Aneesa,” he says warmly, once it’s clicked. “Long time no see. What are you still doing on this sandbucket?”

“Oh, Hawkeye,” she says with a flirtatious wink, “you know how it is - one gets into a rut! Still, the singing is good, and where else could I entertain like I do here?” 

“Ah, sugar, you’re too good for a dive like this,” Clint flirts back. “Make me the happiest of men and run away with me one day.”

Aneesa laughs. “I missed you, Hawk. Just for that, I’ll throw in another ten hours of data. The weather out there is lookin’ fine.”

“Not as fine as you,” Clint says with a grin, but he takes the data. He thinks he sees Coulson’s lips twitch as he checks the readout, but he isn’t sure.

The weather on Tatooine is inherently unpredictable, but monitoring has improved to the point where most major events can be predicted within a rotation or two. Clint tips Aneesa a few extra coins, and he and Coulson head out. They pore over the data together, catching a bite at an outdoor vendor, and then Clint leads the way to the Traders District.

“Don’t you usually make your equipment yourself?” Coulson asks as they walk. It isn’t so important for Clint to ignore Coulson as he would a standard bodyguard, now. They’ve already made their reputations in town.

“Usually,” Clint answers. “I don’t carry desert-wear on me, though. It gets worn down too quickly and repairs can be finicky. It’s best to buy it on site and sell it again before I lift off. On Tatooine, you want something that's been minimally used – factory new means it’s likely to fail at the first sign of bad weather, and falling apart means it’s probably been picked off a corpse. Best place to go in town is Roolek’s.”

Coulson nods and follows him through the market. Roolek’s a small store, near the back of the market, known mostly by reputation. Clint greets the owner by name when he walks in and spends some time looking over the equipment, bartering prices back and forth while Coulson guards their backs. There’s a man watching them by the time they exit, and Coulson looks over and meets Clint’s eyes before flicking them to the left. 

“There’s another hidden behind that alcove,” he says in a quiet voice.

Clint nods but doesn’t speak. He allows his eyes to skip over the men without focusing, taking in the generalities of their appearance and stance. Both look like mercenaries to him, but he can’t tell if they’re Jabba’a’y’a’s men or if they belong to the Ten Rings.

They make it back to their apartment without incident, and set up the interference droid again. They take turns sleeping that night, turning on the clunky heater in the room when the suns go down and the cold seeps in.

It’s an uncomfortable night. There’s only one bed, and it’s lumpy. Clint’s slept in worse places before, but he’s never slept in worse with _Coulson_. He’s hyperaware of the man’s presence. He’d hoped he wouldn’t be - he's been spending almost all of his time with the other man since joining S.H.I.E.L.D., after all - and Coulson hasn’t left his side in over twenty-four hours now. They took turns sleeping on the transport from the _Helicarrier Gold_ to Ryloth without issue. 

This is different, though – the transport was easy to sleep on, the hum of the engines enough to lure Clint under. Here the heater sputters on and off randomly throughout the night, and the mattress is uncomfortable. Coulson’s working on a tablet at the small table, tapping occasionally as he reads. He’s not even looking at Clint, and yet Clint feels as if Coulson’s entire attention is on him as he shifts and rolls over in bed.

It's not unnerving – it's addictive. Clint wants that attention all the time. He wants Coulson to step away from the table and come over to the bed. He wants to undress him, wants to kiss him, wants to do so many things.

Clint takes a breath and tries to bury his desire. If it were Sam he were on a mission with, it wouldn't matter. They've had a casual thing going for years now. Clint wouldn't have to hide what he wanted, and after they'd just be post-coital and relaxed.

With Coulson, though, Clint knows it wouldn't be that easy. Coulson would probably want to _talk_ about things, and Clint knows it would mean more, with him. As much as he likes Sam – and he does – Clint’s heart isn't on the line when they’re together.

With Coulson, it is. So far, it's just that he respects Coulson and he wants the other man to like him, but Clint knows that it could easily become much more than that. Coulson is everything that Clint wants, in one perfect package – he's good looking, competent, loyal, and kind. There's a steadiness to Coulson that makes Clint want to burrow into him and never let go again, and Clint can't afford to get that comfortable.

Not yet.

It's an effort to keep all of that hidden, and it takes time for Clint to fall asleep with such thoughts on his mind. Finally, he drops off, only to wake up a few hours later to take his turn at watch. It’s his turn to try and work while Coulson strips to his underwear and climbs under the covers, rolling into the same position Clint was in just a few minutes ago. It’s because of the body heat, Clint knows, because Tatooine gets so cold at night. It's still hard to shift his attention away.

Coulson falls asleep a lot easier than Clint did, and he wakes looking more refreshed. Clint makes them each a cup of terrible coffee from the dispenser before they get ready for their day. They leave the apartment to buy some breakfast, and then while away several hours looking over maps of the region. Eventually, Clint judges they've wasted enough time, and they cross the city to find the _Bounty_.

Krusk’s waiting for them, blaster holstered and out of his hands, and he’s brought friends along. “Barton,” he says, by way of greeting, “this is Ruut and T’rina.” He indicates a Rodian male and a human female. “If you’re still interested in finding Tony Stark, they’re here to help.” 

Clint levels a glance at the two beings – the Rodian looks like a mercenary. He’s got leather armor and a worn blaster at his side. The woman is more of a mystery – she looks almost too delicate for dangerous work, but then Clint knows better than to underestimate based on looks alone. Her hair is black in the uniform way that says it’s been dyed, and he’s willing to bet the scar on her cheek is faked. 

Coulson is staring at her. Clint knows he looks inscrutable to anyone else, but he’s familiar enough with Coulson’s moods to know that there’s something about the woman that Coulson finds disconcerning. He catches Clint’s eye and shakes his head minutely – Clint knows that whatever it is, it’s not important for now.

“I’m interested,” Clint tells Krusk, “if the price is right. What are you quoting?”

Bartering is harder than it would be if SI really had put out an offer for finding Stark, but Clint manages. Krusk agrees to one-quarter of the pay now and three-quarters when they return with Tony Stark. They shake on it, and then Clint gives Krusk his disposable banking information. They wait until the receipt of transfer is lodged and then Clint turns to the two other beings.

“What have you got for me?”

The woman has a location and the Rodian has a head count. Clint shakes his head at both. “So what you’re saying is that the Ten Rings has Tony Stark hidden away inside a rock canyon surrounded by a ridiculous number of armed guards?” He levels them with a look. “You should leave. This isn’t a job for amateurs.” 

The woman stares at Clint for a long second, and then nods and turns on one heel. She goes back to Krusk and renegotiates her fee, leaving once she agrees to provide the location without accompanying them on the mission. Coulson watches her go, while Clint concentrates on the Rodian. 

“If you believe I will simply walk away from this opportunity,” Ruut says with a glare, “then I have some super soldier serum I wish to sell you.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Sure thing, Steve Rogers,” he says. He glances over at Coulson before shrugging. “Fine. It's your funeral.”

They leave _The Bounty_ together in Ruut’s vehicle and argue strategy as they drive. Clint does most of the talking, freeing Coulson get out his datapad and type an encrypted message to S.H.I.E.L.D. Clint debates asking Coulson to request backup, but the transport is small and there’s no way the Rodian’s wouldn’t overhear them. He _could_ knock the bounty hunter out, but then they’d lose their one unbiased witness and Krusk might become suspicious. Clint mentally shakes his head. Right now, the mission is only recon. Coulson will make sure the other teams know where they’re going, and they can figure something to do to distract Ruut later. 

It takes about three hours to drive to the location. By the time they arrive, Clint has managed to convince Ruut to stay with Coulson and set up a temporary base while Clint scouts ahead. It isn’t an easy sell. The Rodian clearly believes that Clint will either sell him out or be shot instantly, but Clint manages to talk him around. He knows he can cloak himself and move silently, but he won’t be able to do that with a distraction at his side. 

“Fine!” Ruut snarls, just as they coast to a stop behind a large sand dune. “Go alone! I’ll pick the weapons off your corpse and sell them in the city, and I’ll do the same to you both if you double-cross me.”

Clint rolls his eyes as he hops out of the transport. “Get the base set-up and quit grousing. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

Ruut turns his back and doesn’t reply. Coulson catches Clint’s eye. “Be careful,” he says.

Clint smiles. “You too.”

Coulson nods. “I will.”

Clint grabs one of the two scooter bikes the Rodian has stashed in the back of the transport and sets off in the direction the woman T’rina had provided. He stops at a rock outcrop and stashes the scooter, and then walks the final distance on foot. 

According to their information, Tony Stark is being held in a cave system nestled deep inside the Southern Ridge. Clint watches from cover for over an hour. The area is swarming with mercenaries and men with blasters. There's nothing like an organized patrol, but there are a lot of eyes on the ground. He can't see very far into the tunnel system, but it's bound to be even more crowded inside.

Clint takes a deep breath. He can't see anyone walking around with anything as obvious as a lightsaber, but if these guys _are_ connected to HYDRA, then there are probably some Force-sensitives among them. That's good, he reminds himself. His cloaking ability works better on Force users, after all.

Ducking back down behind his cover, Clint takes the time to construct as tightly weaved a Force-cocoon as he can. He sits and lets the feel of it settle around him, using every bit of training Coulson has patiently poured into him to make sure it's secure. When he's ready, he takes one last breath, stands, and then steps out onto the sands. 

One of the men wandering the site looks up. Clint keeps moving, keeping his head down. He focuses on maintaining his control. He can do this. His days of pick-pocketing come back to him, the ancient lessons burned deep. Be confident, but not cocky; be calm, but not sly. Don't act as if you own the place, but be damned sure that if they do see you, they think that you're supposed to be there.

The mercenary's eyes glaze over. Clint passes him and then another two guards, letting out a slow breath as he does. He knows this was the part of the plan that Coulson had liked the least. Clint had worked to convince him, and now he uses the same logic to convince himself. This sort of infiltration is exactly what he's been training for. If he can pull it off, it'll give them the information that they need. Clint pretends that the cave is another level 5 security hallway on the _Helicarrier Gold_ that Clint’s not supposed to be in, pretends he can hear the steady _tap-tap-tap_ on the floor of Coulson walking beside him. 

No one else looks up. Clint makes his way past the outer sentries and into the cave system. There are dozens of goons walking around here, and more weapons tech than Clint has ever seen in one place at one time. It looks as if the Ten Rings is planning on going to war.

It takes longer than Clint had planned to find where Tony Stark is being hidden. It’s down in the depths of the cave system, and he makes more than a few wrong turns. He can hear the sound of manufacturing echoing through the rock. He never actually sees Tony Stark, but he can hear the man cursing from behind a thick, metal door.

The guards on duty actually look at him when he stands still for too long, so Clint is forced to turn and walk away. He makes his way slowly but steadily to the surface, maintaining his cocoon the entire time.

By the time he makes it back to his scooter, it’s the longest he’s ever cloaked himself at one time. He drops the strands of the Force as soon as he touches the seat, the strain rolling off his shoulders in a rush so sudden, he almost falls off the scooter. It takes him a second to get himself under control. Even then, he realizes that his hands are shaking and he’s breathing hard.

He finds Coulson and the Rodian right where he left them, surrounded by the beginnings of a makeshift camp. Clint turns off the scooter and tucks it into the transport again.

“We have a problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sabacc rules can be found at: http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Sabacc


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Around round of applause for my fantastic beta team! Thank you, ladies!
> 
> Just so you know, this chapter earns the ‘casual Clint Barton/Sam Wilson' tag. The end pairing is still firmly Clint/Coulson. I just think Clint and Sam would get along way, _way_ too well, and the sex would be fantastic.

The problem is, Clint explains, there are just too many guards present.

“I can get in,” he says, knowing Coulson will understand, “but I don’t see how we can get out again.”

The Rodian hisses. “We knew Tony Stark would be heavily guarded when we took this job. I, for one, did not come this far without a plan.”

Clint and Coulson watch as Ruut walks back to the transport and reveals a large cache of explosives. 

“You want to blow a hole in the mountainside?” Clint asks disbelievingly. “How will that solve anything?”

Ruut glares. “You get Tony Stark out of his cell and into the cave. Hide in the back recess, and wait until the rock settles. He and I,” Ruut says, indicating himself and Coulson, “will be waiting to get him out.”

Clint shakes his head. “Listen, buddy - I didn’t say there are one or two guards hanging arouns, so if you distract them I can hide around a corner, or something. I mean, there are a _lot_ of guards, and if you don’t kill at least two-thirds of them instantly, Stark and I aren’t going to be able to make it out. If he were being held closer to the surface, maybe I could hold them off long enough to make a run for it, but as it is…” Clint shakes his head. 

“Can you draw us a map of the tunnel system?” Coulson asks, handing Clint his tablet. “Maybe we can think of something.”

They spend the hours until darkness falls huddled around the tablet, brainstorming. Ruut is still focused on the most direct assault, but Clint thinks they're beginning to talk him around. By the time the second sun sets, they have the basics of a plan – they’ll spend tomorrow doing more recon before finalizing it, and then attack when the suns go down.

They never make it. Everything goes belly up the next day, when a massive rumble interrupts their morning planning session. Coulson and Ruut are going over Clint’s map again, arguing about entrance points, when the ground begins to shake. At first it feels like an earthquake, but then they see the rising plume of smoke from the Ten Rings encampment on the ridge.

“To the transport,” Coulson orders, while Clint is staring at the smoke. “Now!”

They hurriedly box up their meager supplies and dive into the transport. Sure enough, a massive shock wave ripples over the sand, thankfully dying away before it can do more than gently rock their vehicle. Coulson and Ruut wait while Clint takes the scooter closer again – it doesn’t take him long to determine what's happened.

“Tony Stark has escaped,” Clint reports when he gets back an hour later, “and it looks like he had a little fun before he left. The base is in ruins. Most of the weapons were lost in the fire, and the debris are scattered all over the area.”

“How did he escape?” Coulson asks. 

Clint shakes his head. “I don’t know. I saw something in the sky though, just as I was driving up to the site. It almost looked like someone was flying away from the wreckage.”

“With a jetpack?” Ruut asks.

“I have absolutely no idea how they would be flying otherwise, but no – I don’t think so. It didn’t look like a jet pack, and it went _high_ – low orbit high. I think that whatever it was, Stark made it himself.”

“Well, the best case scenario is that Stark has made it back to civilization without our assistance,” Coulson says, “but I wouldn’t trust anything he made in a cave. We should head back but keep our eyes open.”

“Head back?” Ruut protests. “With all that weaponry scattered over the sands? Absolutely not! You two can leave if you like, but I’m not going anywhere.”

Coulson doesn't like the idea of wasting time scavenging through the debris, even if Clint can’t blame the bounty hunter. It’s going to be a struggle for him to get paid for this. He might as well take what he can get.

They negotiate for the scooters, which look to be in good shape. They should get them back to Mos Eisley, at least, though it’ll take them twice as long to drive back. Clint and Coulson re-pack their supplies and set off across the sands. Coulson takes the lead since he’s the one who'd spent the day before memorizing maps of the area.

Clint's the one who notices the crash site, though. He sees the debris and shouts for Coulson to stop. 

They stow the scooters and walk the short distance to the site on foot. Clint sees the movement first, the raising of a limb that says that someone’s still alive. He shouts and runs forward, and Coulson is quick on his heels. Together, they find a human male prying himself out from the sands.

“Did you _see that_?” the man shouts. “Hahaha! That was awesome! I mean, the drive system obviously needs work, and the stabilizer was bantha crap, but the weapons worked! I can improve on the armor at my workshop at home, but, oh hey.” The man – who must be Tony Stark – turns to stare at them. “Who the hell are you two? If you’re Ten Rings, I’ll kill myself before I go back.”

His tone of voice never changes. It’s chilling. Clint opens his mouth to respond, but Coulson beats him to it.

“Mr. Stark? My name is Agent Phil Coulson of the Strategic Hazard Integrated Espionage Lightsaber Division. We’re here to get you home safely.”

Stark stares at him. “The Strategic Hazard Integrated... ? Wow. That’s quite the mouthful.”

Clint has to fight a smile, but Coulson doesn’t twitch. “We’re working on it,” he lies. 

They get Stark untangled from his creation and loaded onto the scooter. He’s thin and shaking now that the adrenalin is wearing off, so Clint hands him a water container and lets him rest for a few minutes before gunning the engines. Stark grabs his waist and holds on, and together the three of them make their way back to Mos Eisley. 

Clint briefs him on their cover story as they drive. They get back just as dusk is falling and manage to make it to their rented apartment without being stopped. Clint’s sure they’ve been seen, but no one comes to knock down their door, at least. They scan the apartment for bugs and then give Stark the bed.

The adrenalin has completely worn off, and he’s obviously exhausted. Clint catches a few hours of shut-eye on the floor, dropping off much easier than the last night they spent in this apartment as Coulson types his report on a pad across the room. 

Clint wakes before dawn and convinces Coulson to rest. He’s asleep before Clint can start on his own report, and Clint tucks a blanket around him to ward off the chill. It’s been an exhausting day for everyone.

Stark sleeps too deeply for dreams, but by morning he’s tossing and turning in bed. He wakes with a shout, his eyes wild. Clint, knowing something about nightmares, doesn’t touch him. 

“You're in Mos Eisley, Mr. Stark,” he says instead, keeping his voice even as he turns on the caff dispenser. “My name is Clint Barton. Would you like some coffee?”

He watches out of the corner of his eye as Stark takes several deep breaths. “The coffee on this planet isn't worth the name,” Stark says finally, his voice shaky and stiff.

“It's better than the stuff they try and call tea,” Clint retorts, and they share a smile. 

On the floor, Coulson blinks and rolls, waking quietly without fanfare. “Good morning,” he says, glancing at Stark. “Is there a line for the bathroom this morning?”

Stark shakes his head and motions for Coulson to go first. He stands up and takes Coulson's place at the small table, rubbing his face and drinking his coffee, grimacing at the horrible taste. By the time Clint’s taken his turn in the refresher, Stark looks fractionally more awake.

“I’ve got people to call,” he says, when Clint returns. “Rhodey is probably losing his mind, and Pepper will be frantic. Or maybe she’s already got a new job, who knows?”

Coulson collects his pads. “I’ve notified S.H.I.E.L.D. that you’re safe, Mr. Stark. We have people at SI keeping an eye on things – Ms. Potts is indeed frantic, and not looking for another job. We will inform her and Mr. Rhodes of your status. Agent Barton and I must also present ourselves to the Hutt designation in town and demand our recompense.”

Clint nods. “We should get you off world first, though, Stark. I wouldn’t want you here where the Ten Rings or Jabba'a’y’a’s people might find you.”

Stark shivers and Coulson nods. “One of our other S.H.I.E.L.D. teams on planet should be here within the hour. They will escort you to safety, Mr. Stark.”

“That sounds perfect,” Stark sighs. “I appreciate everything you guys have done for me, I do, but I really – _really_ – want to get off this planet now.”

Coulson arranges things with his usual efficiency, and Clint gives the two of them some space while he finishes his report. He can hear Coulson speaking quietly to Stark about things at SI – he hopes Coulson's warning the man about Obadiah Stane. Clint’s not sure what’s going on there, but he knows it’s not good.

Sitwell arrives with the undercover S.H.I.E.L.D. team and collects Stark. Clint takes a DNA sample and a holovid statement as proof of life. They leave the apartment soon after Sitwell and close it up behind themselves, going to management and paying for the apartment. From there they make their way back to the _Bounty_ to find Krusk.

He’s waiting for them when they arrive, obviously having heard of Stark's ‘rescue’. Clint knows the rumours will circulate that Stark rescued himself, but their role as bounty hunters demands that they take Krusk for everything they can get. Clint re-negotiates their finder's fee and manages to get almost all of it. Ruut isn’t back yet, but Clint doesn’t feel bad for cutting him out. It’s expected. He tries to add a little extra for destroying the Ten Rings base, but Krusk doesn’t buy it. Clint shrugs. Word will get out that it was Tony who destroyed the base, after all.

Coulson wants to limit that knowledge, but Clint knows it’s a lost cause. Krusk obviously already knows the truth. Recognizing the mercenary glint in his eye, Clint feels better knowing Stark is off planet.

They’re waiting for their own ride when Clint finally remembers to ask Coulson about the human woman they’d seen at the _Bounty_ , the mercenary T’rina who’d given them the location of the Ten Rings base.

“I’m not sure,” Coulson says, sounding unusually hesitant. “She seemed familiar, but I'm having difficulty recalling exactly why. To be honest, I'd forgotten about her entirely until you asked. That's unusual.”

Clint thinks of Coulson's normally impressive memory. “Yeah, just a little.”

Coulson shakes his head. “I remember now that her aura was oddly blank. I'm sure she's Force-sensitive, but either she’s had very unusual training, or she has a unique ability much like yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

Coulson smiles. “Clint, you need to realize how special you are. There are Jedi who train for decades to try and manage what you’ve mastered in less than four weeks. You just walked into a heavily secured compound past dozens of guards without detection. That’s an amazing ability.”

Clint tries to fight down his blush. “I still can’t do the usual stuff, though – I can’t levitate or throw rocks or whatever.”

“That’s inconsequential,” Coulson dismisses, “and doesn’t reflect on your status as a Force user. Your ability is unique. I believe this ‘T’rina’ is similar – where you hide from sight, she… blends. I have the feeling that even if we were to meet her again, I would be unable to recognize her.”

“You’re right, boss. That _is_ weird.”

“Which is why we file reports,” Coulson continues with an amused glint in his eye. “So other agents can recognize similar situations and react accordingly.”

Clint groans. “I’m almost done with my preliminary report, does that count?”

Coulson pats his hand. “You can finish on the ride back.”

It takes them another day to return to the _Helicarrier Gold_. They have to take the rickety transport back, but it's less nerve-wracking the second time around. Clint finishes his report while Coulson naps. It actually feels good to write things down – Clint runs a hand over his words and realizes that he's accomplished something as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent that he never would have been able to on his own. If he hadn't had Coulson watching his back, he wouldn't have been able to infiltrate Krusk's world so successfully. It feels like an auspicious beginning to his career with S.H.I.E.L.D.

After that, life falls into a bit of a pattern. Clint goes on several more missions, at first always with Coulson, but then slowly with other teams. He learns to like Sitwell and to appreciate the man’s offbeat sense of humour. Woo is interesting, while Sum and Da’Anvers make one hell of a team. Still, it’s the missions with Coulson that top his list.

Coulson plans his operations down to the smallest detail, and yet he’s still able to think on the fly. If Clint sees something he thinks worth noting, he’s never afraid to bring it to Coulson’s attention. If it’s just the two of them, especially if the mission is something within Clint’s skill range, Coulson will encourage him to take point on the plan. 

They work well together in the field, and, slowly, they become friends outside of it. Clint begins a systematic effort to get to know Coulson better. He wants to learn more about him as an equal, not just as a handler. He learns that Coulson likes spicy food and doesn’t care for tea. He’ll try anything once, something Clint puts to the test multiple times. When he can get it, Coulson likes Elba beer, but he needs coffee in order to survive. He actually has a dispenser in his office and will drink up to five cups a day.

Of all the hidden nooks and crannies Clint’s found on the _Helicarrier Gold_ , Clint likes Coulson’s office the best. It’s quiet, but comfortable, and no one bothers him there. Junior agents come and go, asking Coulson’s opinion, but they tend to ignore Clint, or shoot him sidelong glances. Clint enjoys those. He’s come to develop something of a reputation at S.H.I.E.L.D. – the mercenary with the odd Force abilities, the man who can be anywhere he chooses to be. Clint likes to keep in practice, enjoys stalking the ventilation shafts, and is always up-to-date on the latest S.H.I.E.L.D. gossip. The other agents have come to hold the last in a sort of awe, over and above his unerring aim. 

Despite all this, Coulson is the only one Clint feels completely comfortable around. With the other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, Clint still feels like he has something to prove. He has to be the best, or they're going to figure out the truth about him, that he's just an ex-carnie with better-than-average aim and a weird quirk with the Force. Coulson, though, has seen Clint through thick and thin. He was the first to believe in him, the first to train him, the first to argue that Clint should be a specialist and not just an agent. Coulson has never hurt him, has never taken advantage of him. Coulson always has his best interests at heart.

It's a heady sensation.

Which is why, when Clint receives the order for his first assassination, he immediately heads to Coulson’s office. 

Coulson is working in silence when Clint arrives. As usual, Clint collapses onto the couch. He doesn’t say anything for a while, letting the familiar tapping of Coulson’s fingers on his pad and the quiet relief of his presence calm the nervous fluttering of Clint’s pulse.

He’s not actively shielding, so Coulson must know he’s upset about something. Coulson doesn’t say anything, and eventually, Clint sits up on the couch.

“Did you know?” he asks.

“About your assignment?” Coulson responds, already straightening and putting away his pad, giving Clint his full attention. “Yes.”

Clint nods, takes a deep breath, and then releases it. “Did you recommend me for the mission?”

Coulson doesn’t look away. Clint respects that. “Yes.”

Clint’s not sure how that makes him feel, and Coulson must sense his conflict. “Would you prefer to be reassigned?” he asks, professional and gentle all at once.

“No,” Clint says, reflexively. He stops and thinks about it, and then says it again. “No. I was just… surprised.”

“Why?”

Clint shakes his head. “I don’t know. It’s stupid. I know S.H.I.E.L.D. hired me because I’m a good shot. I actually expected this to be the first kind of mission I received, but then we got sent to Tatooine and I’ve been to Yaga Minor and Kashyyyk since then. I guess I figured, maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. already had assassins.”

“We do,” Coulson agrees. “I recommended that you be hired not only as an assassin, but as a full-fledged specialist within S.H.I.E.L.D. You’ve proven that you’re capable of that, many times over. This is a difficult target, though, and Director Fury said he wanted the best. That’s you.”

“He’s a bad guy,” Clint says, looking down at the file. “As a bounty hunter, I’d have taken the contract in a heartbeat. I don’t know why it feels different now.”

“Perhaps it’s because you’ve seen that there’s much more that you can do,” Coulson suggests. “You were trained to shoot, and you shoot very well. I suppose it’s possible that you felt that was all you _could_ do, but it’s not, Clint. You’re a fantastic agent with a multitude of skills.”

“And one of those skills is assassination.”

“And one of those skills is assassination,” Coulson agrees, his voice kind. “You don’t have to agree to the mission, Clint. You can request that you be kept from all wetworks operations that arise in the future. You have other skills that S.H.I.E.L.D. finds useful. You wouldn't be dismissed or demoted for making that choice, and no one will hold it against you.”

Clint looks back down at the file. He can see why Fury wants an experienced hand – Rad’an Go’shi is a criminal mastermind with a rap sheet that reads like a holovid, and now he’s seeking ties with HYDRA. “I’d hold it against me,” Clint says finally. “Go’shi needs to go down, and I want to be the one to do it. I just… I guess it was easier to do this as Hawkeye instead of as Agent Barton.”

“If it makes it more palatable,” Coulson says with a smile, “S.H.I.E.L.D. would like you to resume your identity as Hawkeye for the duration of the op. HYDRA knows that you are working with us, but they don’t know in what capacity. If we can convince them that S.H.I.E.L.D. is simply another employer, we can keep your true status a secret.”

That makes sense. “So we’ll fake a meet and a transfer of funds, and then I’ll proceed on my own as Hawkeye?” Clint asks.

“Not on your own,” Coulson corrects. “Your handler for this mission will be Woo. He’ll be on-planet with backup available at the slightest hint that something has gone wrong. I don’t want you to put yourself in any kind of danger. Take down Go’shi from a distance, as you usually would, and make your own way off world. That should be safest.”

“Aw, Coulson,” Clint says with a teasing grin. “You _do_ care.”

“Of course,” Coulson says, too serious. “Very much.”

Clint holds his gaze for a little too long, but in the end, he looks away. There is too much in Coulson’s eyes - trust and fondness and something, something _more_.

Something Clint knows he wants but doesn’t know if he can have.

It must have been a trick of the light. When Clint looks back, the look is gone. It’s been replaced by Coulson’s calm assurance. 

“I won’t let you down, sir,” Clint says finally.

Coulson nods. “I know you won’t.”

Clint leaves to find Woo. They talk over the mission and make plans. Clint leaves for Go’shi’s home planet two days later. Everything proceeds according to plan. He kills Go’shi with a shot to his primary heart from a mile away and gets off-planet again without being seen. He’s paid a substantial amount of money by S.H.I.E.L.D. for the job and is told to keep it in a separate account that he can draw upon if he’s ever separated from the fold. Woo tells him to take a few days before coming back to the _Helicarrier Gold_ , to reduce the chance of someone too easily tracing the kill.

Clint sends Sam a wave, and is glad to hear that he isn’t far. They meet up on Corellia at their favorite bar.

“Clint!” Sam says, drawing him into an enthusiastic hug. “You’re looking good, man.”

“You too,” Clint says, thumping Sam on the back. He steps back and lets his eyes wander down the man's familiar form. “You, too.”

Sam laughs and orders them both a drink. “Business has been steady. I haven’t gotten shot at this week, which is always a plus.” He grins. “How about you? How’s your ‘long term’ investment paying off?”

Clint takes a sip of his spiced Corellian ale. “It’s good. It’s really good, actually. Turn on the dampening field and I’ll tell you all about it.”

The bar, like many of its kind on Corellia, is specifically designed for clandestine meetings. Sam lifts an eyebrow, but does as Clint asks, thumbing on the interference field that will protect them from prying eyes and ears. A sizzle of energy dances over Clint’s skin.

Now that he can, Clint tells Sam the details he’s been forced to keep from him when speaking over a wave. Sam listens quietly, shaking his head every now and then. 

“And then they offered me a job,” Clint says, leaning back, the interference field still humming. “Tatooine was our first mission – thanks for the help there, by the way – and I’ve been all over the galaxy since.”

“And it’s good?” Sam asks, concerned. “They’re treating you okay?”

Clint nods. “They are. The guy who brought me in…” he shakes his head. “It’s like he’s really looking out for me. Like I’m more than just a ex-carnie with good aim.”

“You’ve always been more than that, Clint,” Sam assures him.

“Maybe,” Clint says, shrugging. “Coulson seems to think so, at least.”

“Aww,” Sam grins. “It sounds like you’ve made a friend.”

Clint rolls his eyes but feels something pinch in his chest. He ignores it and drinks the rest of his ale. “I ain’t got no friends but you, Sam.”

“Now that’s just sad,” Sam says, finishing his drink. He points the empty glass at Clint. “I have plenty of friends, even if you are the prettiest, and I treasure each and every one of them. You need more people in your life, Clint.”

“Obviously I’m the prettiest,” Clint agrees. He thumbs off the interference field and signals for another round. “Though I’d like to hear about the runner up.”

They spend the night drinking, sharing stories, and catching up. They sleep together that night, and it’s good. It’s always been good with Sam – easy and uncomplicated without the need for more. Clint feels lighter when he finally gets back to the _Helicarrier Gold,_ even though his head is still swimming.

He thinks over Sam’s words in the weeks that follow. He knows that Coulson’s becoming a friend – he's the one who encouraged it, after all, who sought out his company after training and tried to learn whatever details Coulson consented to share with him. He still doesn't know where the man was born or what his training was like, but the knowledge he's earned still matters. Coulson trusts him, and Clint trusts him in turn. It's good. It's exactly what he wanted.

It's not, however, _all_ that he’s ever wanted, or all that he still wants. It's easier to admit it to himself after a night spent in bed with Sam. Sam's good, he's great in all the ways that matter between the sheets, but damn if Clint can’t help but wonder what it would be like with Coulson there instead. It'd been hard not to picture Coulson in Sam's place, to wonder what sounds he might make, if he would let Clint make him come.

Clint has known he's been attracted to Coulson since the man first made eye contact with him on Ralavi, and he's known that his heart's in danger since Tatooine, but he hadn't thought it’d gone this far. 

Now that he knows it has, though, Clint has to decide what he's going to do about it. Coulson's more than Clint's teacher now, he's Clint's friend, and that changes things.

He decides that he has time. Despite what he saw or he _thinks_ he saw in Coulson’s office that one day, the man has never given any indication that he thinks of Clint as anything more than just an unusual protégé and a sort-of friend. 

Clint goes on several more missions, mostly with Sitwell and his gaggle of junior agents. They take out a smuggling ring on Gamorr and manage a snatch-and-grab on Barab One. There’s rumours of a big op planned for Nal Hutta, but it’s put off. They need more agents with better undercover skills.

Over and above his missions for S.H.I.E.L.D., though, Clint’s encouraged to keep his outside contracts and take commissions as Hawkeye if there’s a target of interest in the wind. Now that his supplies are covered by S.H.I.E.L.D. and he doesn’t have to worry about securing his own accommodations, his bank accounts begin to accumulate a significant amount of funds. Clint realizes one day that he’s rich – he could leave S.H.I.E.L.D. if he wanted, and travel the galaxy on his own dime.

Clint laughs at himself and logs out of his account. He’d be bored within one standard day, and back on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s doorstep within two. Despite how unlikely it seems, the _Helicarrier Gold_ has become his home.

Which is, of course, when life throws him a curveball. The only constant is change, as Tiboldt used to say, and Clint knows that truth in his bones. He feels the shift in the contract offers that come to his inbox bi-weekly, and understands the change in the tone.

“Shit,” Clint says, staring down at his pad. This is the third contract he’s been offered this cycle, only to have the seller revoke the offer because the target is dead. Clint searches for the name of the bounty hunter who collected, already knowing what he’ll find.

The Black Widow.

Clint stuffs the pad in his bag and troops off to Coulson’s office. He isn’t expecting the reaction he gets.

“Director Fury just contacted me,” Coulson says, skimming Clint’s pad and handing it back before Clint can say anything. “Intelligence has noted a similar pattern, and something more worrying besides - all of the targets eliminated have been a threat to HYDRA.”

Clint sits down on Coulson’s couch. “Crap.”

Coulson nods. “S.H.I.E.L.D. has been tracking the Black Widow for some time now. We know nothing about her – not her species, not her face, not even her modus operandi. We have people who confirm that any target she takes simply dies, either seemingly by accident, or in gruesome or grotesque ways. She used to take contracts for a wide variety of employers, but now she seems to be working solely for HYDRA.”

“So you think HYDRA approached her as they tried to approach me, only this time S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn’t there to stop them?”

“I think the Black Widow was approached by HYDRA, yes,” Coulson confirms. “We don’t know the details of the deal they struck with her. Some down in intelligence are convinced that she has Force abilities and has completely gone to the Dark Side. I myself am unsure. I’m also not convinced that one needs to have obvious Force talents to be lured to the Dark Side, but that is a philosophical discussion for another day.”

“So S.H.I.E.L.D. wants us to – what?” Clint asks. “Take her out?”

Coulson nods. “Director Fury is calling a meeting for oh-seven-hundred.” 

Clint can follow his thought. “You think he’ll send me.”

Coulson holds his eyes. “I do. I also think that he’ll recommend me as your handler.”

Clint sighs. “Better you than anyone else, boss.” He glances down at his pad, struggling with his feelings for a moment. Coulson lets him.

“It’s not that there’s honour among thieves,” Clint says, finally, “and I know that she’s done a lot of bad things and killed a lot of good people, but it’s just… that could have been me, you know?”

“I know,” Coulson agrees. 

Clint meets his eyes and sees that he does. His gaze is heavy, but clear.

“Okay,” Clint says, clearing the pad and picking up his stylus. “So what’s the plan?”

 

*

 

They leave together the next day. One of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s contacts has confirmed that The Black Widow has taken a contract for a high-profile senator named Tal’oon Born. The senator is currently on Coruscant, attempting to push through legislation that would shift the location of several developments scheduled for the Core Worlds to the Outer Rim. The publicity department says it’s to increase resources and trade within the galaxy. In reality, the push would do little but line the pockets of several galactic conglomerates, including one the Senator has an interest in. S.H.I.E.L.D. thinks HYDRA is against the project because it would increase the flow of traffic through the Meridian Sector. There are several hidden bases believed to be located somewhere in that region of space. 

They arrive on Coruscant a full month before the assassination is scheduled to take place. The contract S.H.I.E.L.D. had seen clearly specified that the Black Widow was to wait until several key players were ready before assassinating the Senator, so that HYDRA sympathizers could take advantage of the opportunity. The window gives Clint and Coulson time to memorize the routines of the Senate, and Clint spends hours every day tailing Born.

“This guy is the most boring half-corrupt official ever to grace the halls of the Chancellery,” Clint complains. “He gets up at oh-seven-hundred, eats a ration bar for breakfast, gets driven to the Senate, spends hours in meetings, and returns to his apartment. Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat, over and over and over again.”

“Routines are good for assassinations,” Coulson reminds him.

Clint shakes his head. “Usually, yes, but this guy's smart. His security force is top-notch, his car is ray-shielded, and the Senate itself is heavily protected. I've scoped out the high-rises in every direction and while, yeah, there are a few rooftops with a clear line-of-sight – have you seen the new monstrosity that Stark is building? I'm glad we saved the guy's life and everything, but that thing is an eyesore – the high-speed wind currents rule out use of a projectile weapon. _I_ couldn't shoot this guy.”

Coulson nods. “Which means the Black Widow doesn't stand a chance.”

“Exactly.”

Coulson leans back and favours Clint with a look. They're sitting in their safe house, a mid-level apartment several blocks away from the Chancellery, while Coulson's surveillance program runs in the background. “What about a close range attack?”

Clint runs a hand through his hair. “That would be possible, but extremely unlikely. There's a window of opportunity as the Senator moves from his personal vehicle to the Senate Building, but it’s narrow. The dome where he exits the car is in a public location, but it's ray-shielded and scanned daily for bombs. There's no place for a sniper to hide. She _could_ try to get close to him with a knife, but she'd have to make it through at least three dozen security officers first. She could do it, but not before the Senator escaped.”

“What about his apartment? Could she take him out there?”

Clint shakes his head. “Born has a private entrance and his car deposits him inside the building itself. The floor plan is open, with literally no location in which to hide. Security monitors the apartment constantly. There is no ventilation access and air circulation is accomplished using minuscule holes that vent directly to the outside. The windows are reinforced against projectiles and are ray-shielded. She could blow a hole in the side of the building, of course, but we know that she usually prefers a silent attack and that would be anything but.”

Coulson purses his lips. “So you're saying the assassination attempt will most likely occur inside the Senate Building itself.”

“Yes,” Clint agrees. “It will.”

Coulson nods and indicates his surveillance. He has several programs running at once, some tapped into Senate Security and others operating separately alongside. “Senate Security, as you know, is secondary to none. There are approximately several thousand beings moving through the Building daily, and each is tracked using video and audio surveillance. Names are recorded in the official registrar, and faces and voice recognition patterns are tagged. Genetic analysis is used to identify those who, for reasons of faith or biology, must cover their identifying appendages. All employees must pass an extremely rigorous security check. Theoretically, this should all be more than enough to keep the Black Widow at bay.”

Clint looks at the screen, noting the tens of thousands of points of incoming data. “It won't be.”

Coulson nods slowly. “It won't be. I don't know how, and I wish I did, but considering the targets the Black Widow has eliminated in the past, somehow none of this will be able to stop her. Saving Senator Born will be up to us.”

Clint swallows. “It's not going to be easy.”

Coulson gifts him with a smile. “No,” he agrees. “It's not.”


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, all the thanks to my beta's who always make everything better :)

The next several weeks pass slowly. Coulson watches the video feed, obsessively tracking every aide assigned to their Senator and the various other beings Born interacts with. Since every bureaucrat seems to have an ever-expanding entourage, it’s a daunting task.

Clint spends the majority of his time underground. He memorizes the various sub-levels adjacent to the Senate Building and wanders around the Chancellery. He learns the routes that lead into the deeper sections of the planet-city. Unnumbered floors extended down towards the surface and even beyond, burrowing into the crust of the world.

When he’s committed a significant portion of the layout to memory, and spent more than a few credits at some of the gritter bars in a bid for good will, he moves back to the surface. Clint climbs the Senate Building and re-familiarizes himself with the topography, practicing bow shots as best he can without setting off a panic. He still thinks it's unlikely the Black Widow will try this vantage, but he doesn't want to rule anything out. 

Finally, the week of the hit arrives. The HYDRA sympathizers are in place and Clint and Coulson receive word that the assassination will likely take place just before the second vote on their bill of interest, which is in three days. Coulson has been poring over his recorded video, but he can’t find hide or hair of anyone out of place. It’s obviously frustrating him. 

“I know I’m missing _something_ ,” Coulson growls, staring hard at his screens, “but I can’t seem to figure out _what_.”

Clint crosses the small hotel room they’ve taken and peers over Coulson’s shoulder. He hasn’t had much to contribute to Coulson’s half of the preparation, his specialty being sniper support and on-the-ground reconnaissance. It’s also been difficult for him to be in the same room with Coulson for a significant period of time. It's not as distracting as it was that night on Tatooine, but it's still uncomfortable. Clint doesn't know what he wants to do with the desire simmering under his skin, and he doesn't want Coulson to pick up on it before he makes his decision. 

It prickles again as Clint comes to stand at Coulson's shoulder. He does his best to ignore it, but Coulson smells so good, a subtle combination of sweat, shampoo, and something deeper – a scent that's just him.

Clint swallows and focuses on the screen, tracking the various people moving in and out of the Senate building. He follows Senator Born's delegation with an assassin’s eyes. “What about her?” he asks, spotting a redhead in the group. There’s something familiar about her, though the video is somewhat grainy. “Who’s she?”

Coulson blinks and frowns. “Who?”

“Her,” Clint says, tapping the screen. “The red-headed human female, standing just behind Senator Jon’uha, next to Born. I’ve seen her before, somewhere.”

Coulson shakes his head as if to clear it, and then leans forward until his nose is almost touching the screen. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he says quietly. “I don’t know.”

Clint looks at him in surprise. “You don’t know? You’ve been staring at this video for two weeks now and you haven't seen her before?”

Coulson stands. “We have to go - _now._ ” 

Clint can feel his eyes widen, but he doesn’t question Coulson’s urgency. He just grabs the robes they’ll be using as a disguise while Coulson snatches up their ID’s and his pad. “I don’t understand,” Clint calls as they run out the apartment door.

“She’s the Black Widow,” Coulson says over his shoulder as they race down the corridor. “She has to be. Jasper’s right - she must have Force abilities, powerful ones. She managed to hide herself from my video search.” They round the corner to the elevator station, a necessary structure in a building several hundred stories tall. Coulson presses the button and enters his override code on the panel beside it at the same time. “I feel as if I’ve seen her before, but I can’t seem to remember where or when. I’m getting a headache just thinking about it.” 

Clint throws him his robe before pulling his own over his head. “If that's true, then why can I see her?”

Coulson pauses doing up his robe and shoots Clint a smile. “Because you're incredible,” he says, and then clears his throat, eyes going back to his clasps. “I mean, it's likely because you yourself have a very unusual Force ability. It might even be in some ways very similar to hers. Perhaps your ability cancels hers out.” Coulson frowns, as if a thought is occurring to him. “Which means your cocoon effect may not work on her - be careful when you shield yourself around her, Clint.”

“I will,” Clint promises. He clips his borrowed lightsaber to his belt and tries to arrange his robe so it covers his bow. No matter how he pulls, it seems to bunch. He growls at the fabric. “I hate this thing.”

Coulson smiles. The elevator dings and they hurry inside. Thanks to Coulson’s override code, it’s empty, and they speed towards the skyway that will take them to the Chancellery. “It's the perfect disguise for getting us into the Senate building. No one will question a Jedi and his apprentice, and our ID's have been approved by the Council itself.”

“That might be true, boss, but it doesn't make it fit any better,” Clint grumbles.

Coulson throws him a look. “It fits fine.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Clint argues, adjusting his arms again. The lightsaber on his hip bounces awkwardly. “It's horrible. I don't know how you can move in this thing.”

“We’ve been practicing for weeks now,” Coulson reminds him. 

“Two weeks isn’t enough time to get used to this,” Clint decides. He eyes Coulson and how comfortable he appears. “Not even for _you_.”

Coulson smiles serenely while keeping his eyes on the floor numbers ticking away. “Like I said - practice.”

“Uh huh,” Clint says. “You know, you've never _did_ tell me where you were trained. Are you sure you're not a Jedi Master Director Fury somehow lured into S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

Coulson shakes his head. The elevator coasts to a stop. “Chop, chop, Barton.”

Clint rolls his eyes and hurries after him. “You didn't answer the question, boss.”

Coulson puts his head down and his hood up, leading the way through the ever present crowd of people that mill around the Chancellery. He links his security program to his encrypted pad as they go. “Oh, did you have a question? I thought you were just making vague insinuations.”

Clint pulls his own hood over his head, hating the way it obscures his peripheral vision. “I can do both at the same time.”

Coulson throws him a tiny smile, but stops him before they step into the Chancellery. He glances over their disguises, stepping close to unclip Clint’s borrowed lightsaber and transfer it to his other hip. “There,” he says, readjusting the fabric. “That's better.”

Clint swallows, glad the heavy cloth hides his reaction to Coulson's hands. “See, that's the kind of thing I'm talking about, boss,” Clint says, his voice only a little hoarse. “You're secretly a Jedi. Don't deny it.”

“I'm not denying anything,” Coulson says mildly, turning towards the Chancellery as the door opens. “Game-face on.”

Clint sticks his tongue out but follows Coulson inside. He takes a deep breath and centers himself, feeling for the thin strands of the Force. 

“That's better,” Coulson says softly at his side. Clint looks over to see that he's wearing the slightly distant expression that means he's also half-concentrating on the Force. It makes him look even more like a Jedi than before, dangerous and reserved and oh so fucking hot.

Okay, strike that last one. No attachments for a Jedi, remember? Clint takes another breath and lets the desire go.

They make their way through the outer rim of the Chancellery, flashing their ID's when required. Coulson keeps the datapad with the security software in his hand, glancing down at it now and again. Clint focuses his attention on the people around them, trying to ignore how out of place he feels. He’s hyperaware of the extra second it will take him to pull out his bow, and no matter how he moves, the lightsaber on his hip bounces awkwardly.

He knows that it’s part of his disguise, but he can’t get over how fundamentally useless it is. Unlike Coulson, Clint doesn't know how to wield it. He’s more likely to take his own arm off than deflect a blaster bolt, if it comes to that.

They reach the inner section of the Chancellery, which is restricted to Senators and their entourages, but thanks to their Council-approved ID’s, they’re admitted without question. Coulson leads them towards the Council chambers where Born is in a meeting. Clint swiftly scans the moving crowds, alert for any flash of red hair. He sees several human females walking around, but no one looks like the woman Clint saw on the security footage.

They loiter in the corridor, watching the meeting on Coulson’s pad. Clint looks over his shoulder but can’t see the Widow anywhere. Born is in fine form, arguing that increased development of the Outer Rim is to everyone’s advantage.

_It certainly is to yours_ , Clint thinks to himself. 

The meeting finally ends and the Council members trickle out in ones and twos, their retinues following along behind them. Coulson keeps his eye on Born while Clint scans the crowd. 

She arrives silently, a quiet presence with red hair. Clint is watching the corridor and he sees the moment she steps out from behind a pillar and seamlessly integrates herself into Senator Born’s crew. He taps Coulson on the shoulder. Coulson scans the crowd but shakes his head.

“She must be shielding herself - I can’t see anything unusual,” Coulson says, sounding frustrated. “Is she here?”

Clint nods, his gaze focused on the Black Widow. “Two steps behind the Senator, nodding along with everyone else at something he has to say.” He tenses. “Do you think she’ll try to kill him now, boss?”

Coulson frowns. They group begins to move away, so they turn to follow. “It would be a violation of her instructions. From what we can determine, HYDRA wants Born alive until the morning of the second vote, when his absence should provoke the most interest.”

“If you say so, sir,” Clint says. He stops Coulson in the corridor and feigns a look at his pad when the Black Widow stops and looks around. Crap – has she seen them? But no, the rest of the group has stopped as well. They’re waiting for a transport to the upper chambers. He tugs Coulson into line after them. “She could literally stab him in the back right now and slip away into the crowd. I honestly don’t think anyone would notice. Not a single person has looked at her since she joined the group.”

Coulson shakes his head as the transport arrives. “Absolutely incredible.”

Clint can't help but agree. 

The Senator’s group steps onto the transport. It's full, but Clint and Coulson manage to squeeze their way on, one or two people making room for the distinguished Jedi they appear to be. Clint smiles his thanks while Coulson looks stoic. 

Clint does his best not to stare at the Black Widow, looking instead out the window and keeping her in his periphery.

“What do you see when you look to the Senator’s left?” Clint murmurs to Coulson as the transport brakes. The resulting sound covers their words.

“I can see someone standing in that space,” Coulson replies in the same quiet tone, “but I can’t focus on the individual. I don’t even realize that my eyes have skipped over the figure entirely until I remind myself that someone is there. What does she look like?”

“She’s beautiful,” Clint says frankly. “Pale and human with bright red hair. She's small, almost delicate, but I'm sure she's stronger than she looks. She's kind of familiar, too, I think…” he pauses, trying to work it out. He _has_ seen her before, if he only he could remember where…

One of the party in front of them is wearing a sand-coloured tunic, and glancing at it jogs Clint’s memory. “Tatooine,” he says, almost too loud. The person next to them looks over, and Clint glances nervously at the Black Widow. She hasn’t moved from where she’s focused on whatever Born is talking about. 

“Tatooine,” Clint says again, quieter this time. “That’s where I remember her from. She was the woman at the _Bounty_ , the bar where we met Krusk. Do you remember? The one who had information on where the Ten Rings had stashed Tony Stark.”

Coulson’s eyes are far away and he’s obviously trying to remember. After a moment, he shakes his head. “I don’t recall,” he says, sounding apologetic. “I’m sorry, Clint, I know there was a woman, and I remember that we received the information about Stark’s location from someone, but…”

“Check your notes later, I remember you said that's why we write reports, because you knew your memories of her were already fading.”

Coulson nods. “I will.” 

The transport brakes again, and then stops, docking at an overhead ring. The crowd shifts and begins to fan out. Clint looks around as they follow – they’re in the upper echelons of the Senate Building. He recognizes the location from his days spent following Born around.

The Senator leads his group to a corner office, talking the entire time. Coulson taps on his pad and then angles it so Clint can read – the Senator’s schedule had been updated sometime since they checked it this morning to include a meeting with a Senate official whose name Clint doesn’t recognize. He frowns at Coulson, who mirrors his concern. It could be a ploy to remove Born from the busy crowd downstairs.

At the door to office, the majority of Born’s party shuffles off. A few of his remaining aides are dispatched on duties and only three turn to follow the Senator into the waiting room. Clint keeps his eyes on the Black Widow. It looks as if she’s moving off, but then something metal flicks into her hand. 

Clint recognizes the instrument only because he's used it himself while on the job, years ago, when he still took commissions for up-and-personal kills. “Assassin!” he shouts, drawing the attention of the crowd as he throws off his brown apprenticeship robe and starts running forward. He cocks his wrist and his bow snaps into his hand with a satisfying _thwap_. “Senator Born – get _down_!”

The Senator doesn't move, his jaw flopping open like a surprised fish. Clint curses when he sees the Black Widow dart forward. He doesn't know why she's decided to move up the timetable on her attack, but Clint sees her jab the hypodermic needle into the Senator’s leg, stabbing him in the thigh. Clint knows the needle will automatically depress, so he’s ready when she spins around and starts running for the window at the end of the hall.

Clint doesn’t bother slowing down for the Senator – he knows Coulson will get to the man, analyze whatever's in his bloodstream, and find out if there's an antidote. Clint tucks his bow in close and takes off after the Widow.

He puts on a burst of speed, but he can’t catch her before she makes it to the end of the hall. They’re high in the Senate Building, hundreds of stories above the main concourse, but she doesn’t hesitate. She just attaches an explosive device to the window she’s stopped at, detonates it, and throws herself out, all without giving anyone a second glance.

Clint’s jaw drops as he watches her fall. He runs to the window and stares. He can still see her falling, gravity giving her speed. She _has_ to have a plan. Clint swallows and swings one leg over the ledge, dangling it into the air beyond. She wouldn’t have just _jumped_ …

There – Clint sees it an instant before the Black Widow latches on. There's a thin piece of wire, likely a climbing string, strung between the floors of the Senate Building. It must be her emergency escape route. She probably has the mag-gloves needed to catch it and slow her descent.

Well, Clint doesn’t have mag-gloves but he only fell off the trapeze half a dozen times. He retracts his bow and thumbs on his ear comm., pulling a length of extensor-rope from the false bottom of his quiver. He wraps it several times around his right hand and leaves the edge dangling. “How’s the Senator?” he asks, knowing Coulson will hear him.

“He’s alive,” Coulson says, conveniently leaving off if he’s likely to stay that way. “What the hell are you _doing_?”

Clint looks back just long enough to shoot Coulson a grin, but not enough to lose his nerve. “My job,” he says. “Good luck, boss. Look on his right thigh for an injection site and you, know, avenge me if this goes wrong.”

With that, Clint jumps.

He hasn’t really missed the exhilaration of freefall. It’s as scary as a Wookiee in a rage, and Clint doesn’t have the death wish he did when he was younger. He watches the wire he’s slowly falling towards and readies the rope in his hand. When the moment’s right – and it’d better be, because he won’t get a second chance at this – Clint throws the rope over the wire and catches it in his left hand.

His shoulders jerk. Gravity doesn’t want to let him go and Clint almost loses his grip on the rope. He tightens his fingers and prays to whoever is listening that Coulson won’t actually have to avenge his death. 

Either someone is listening or he’s just that good, because his grip holds. The wire slows his descent just enough that Clint can make out the details around him again, more than just a gray rushing blur. He looks and sees the Widow far below him. She must have let go of the wire where it crosses a small pedestrian bridge and then jumped onto the skyway below. Clint judges the angle and releases – he falls, hitting the bridge with both feet, and then tucks into a roll. His momentum keeps him moving and Clint’s back on his feet and running for the street before he has time to think about how much his shoulders hurt. He doesn’t have a chance to feel sorry for himself – Clint hits the edge of the bridge and jumps.

His landing is perfect, but he’s not sixteen anymore. His knees are going to be very unhappy with him if he survives long enough for them to lodge a protest. Clint struggles to his feet and huffs out a breath. He looks around and sees the Black Widow making a break for it. It must be years since she’s been chased by someone who could see her running, because she’s not dodging or pushing down civilians in an effort to make Clint’s job harder. 

Clint sucks in a breath and takes off after her. He doesn’t bother trying to shield, it would take too much energy and if Coulson is right, it wouldn’t do him any good anyway. The Black Widow reaches the end of the skyway and hits the button for a personal elevator there. Clint sees her look around and spots the moment she realizes he’s still following her – her eyebrows go up and a look of astonishment crosses her face. After a second, her lips tighten, and the elevator arrives. She steps inside.

Clint puts on a burst of speed but the doors close before he can reach her. He lets out a frustrated growl and looks around – there are no other elevators in the area. Clint has no idea how far down she’s chosen to go, and he can’t just guess.

He takes a step towards the controls, wondering if he can hotwire them or something, when an unfamiliar weight hits his leg. He looks down and realizes his borrowed lightsaber is still attached to his belt. He’d thrown off the apprenticeship robe but the lightsaber had stayed clipped throughout his crazy fall from the top of the Senate tower.

Clint’s reaching for it before he can reconsider if this is really a good idea. “Coulson,” he says out loud, “I’m about to do something really stupid.”

“You mean more than you have _already_?” Coulson gripes, his voice tinny but relieved through the military-grade comm. He’d probably thought Clint had gone splat onto the skyway by now. 

Clint winces. “Okay, good point,” he admits. He turns the lightsaber over in his hand, looking for the on switch. As crazy as his life has been, he’s never tried to use one of these things before. “Now, how do you – oh.” His thumb finds the toggle and the lightsaber blazes on. It’s a rich, shimmery purple, and Clint grins. “Coulson, I think I like this weapon.”

“What’s your location?” Coulson asks quickly. 

Clint shakes his head, even though he knows Coulson can’t see him. “No clue, and I’m about to jump into an elevator shaft going down to no-clue-minus-unknown, so good luck finding me on surveillance.”

“ _Barton_ ,” Coulson growls. 

“Don’t worry, I’ve got a good feeling about this,” Clint says. He steps closer to the elevator and pushes the lightsaber through the thin metal. It slides in as easily as a vibroblade through butter. 

Clint cuts a roughly person-sized hole and kicks the metal in. It falls down the shaft until it pings somewhere far below. Passersby look at him, but he just waves the lightsaber around. 

“Jedi business,” he declares, in his most pompous voice. “Nothing to see here.”

The edges of opening he’s cut are hot - scaldingly so. Clint avoids touching them as he carefully steps towards the opening. The light from his lightsaber illuminates the shaft – it’s small, one-person only, and he can see the elevator car still descending far below.

“What I wouldn’t give to have a few more Force abilities,” Clint mutters to himself as readies his grip. He takes a deep breath, steadies himself, and jumps.

The walls of the elevator shaft go rushing by. Clint pushes out with his feet and locks his knees, slowing his descent using the friction of his boots against the sides of the shaft. It works, to an extent. Clint’s legs are shaking and his boots are beginning to melt, but he’s not in free-fall any more. He adjusts his stance as best he can to change his speed and catches up to the elevator car. Thankfully, it’s not descending too quickly – this is obviously a public mode of transportation and not one that’s been super-charged like the one in the government-owned set of apartment buildings where he and Coulson have been living for the past several weeks.

He leaves the lightsaber on so he can see where he’s going, and because he’s afraid to move too much, lose contact with the elevator walls, and accidentally slice himself in half with the shimmering purple blade. Finally, he’s just above the elevator car. He releases the wall and falls the last several feet to the descending roof. Before the Black Widow can figure out what he’s done and start shooting, Clint uses the tip of the saber to carve a hole at his feet.

He kicks at the metal and it falls down, and Clint jumps in immediately after it. He brings the lightsaber up as an instinctive shield, and the purple beam saves his life. 

The Black Widow is waiting for him inside the elevator car with a blaster pointed directly at his face. Clint unthinkingly deflects the resulting shot and it buries itself in the floor. He doesn’t know how to fight with a lightsaber, though, so he throws it away before the Black Widow can shoot him again and rushes forward. The lightsaber switches off the moment it loses contact with his hand.

The elevator car is small, only made for one person, but there’s enough room to fight. Clint has a second to thank the deities of long-lost Alderaan that it doesn’t just slice through the bottom of the car before the Black Widow jabs forward with her right fist. Clint ducks and moves to knee her in the stomach, but she blocks the kick and comes up swinging. Clint deflects her punch, but she’s fast – very fast – and he catches her next hit in the face. 

Clint drops with the force of the blow but then ducks and kicks for her knee. He connects and tries to turn the hit into a spin designed to put her on the floor, but she tucks herself forward and flips over his outstretched leg, instead. She lands on her toes, pivots, and aims a kick to his head, but Clint’s back on his feet and manages to block her. They spar for several minutes, each getting at least one hit in, before the elevator slows to a stop and dings.

It’s obviously the moment she’s been waiting for – the Black Widow snaps out a quick one-two-punch combination that puts Clint's back against the wall. He's dazed, but instead of pressing her advantage, the Black Widow turns and runs out the door. Clint shakes his head to clear it and takes off after her. He remembers this floor from his days doing surveillance around the Senate building – there’s a bar somewhere down here where he spent a significant amount of time donating credits. If he's lucky, she'll head towards it.

Some long-dead god smiles at him, because the Black Widow takes a right turn instead of a left and runs straight towards the _Jet Pack Fuel_. Clint grins to himself and hopes Volley is minding the bar.

It’s his lucky day. Clint crosses the threshold a moment after the Black Widow does and spots the Rodian mixing drinks. 

“She’s got a skifter!” Clint shouts, pointing at the Black Widow as she runs through the bar. He hopes she’s been distracted enough by their chase to drop her shields, since there’s no way for him to tell. “Stop her and I’ll give you the winnings she stole!”

Thievery is pretty commonplace down here, but _that’s_ enough to get people moving. The Black Widow must have let go of the Force sometime in the last few minutes, because several beings stand up to block her exit from the bar. 

She doesn't even slow down, jumping to land for a split-second on a table before leaping up and over the heads of two of the beings now turning to block her exit. Clint barely has enough time to activate his bow before she lands on her feet behind the bruisers and takes off.

He's not called Hawkeye for nothing, though. Clint grabs an arrow from his quiver and strings it without pause. He sights and shoots in one smooth motion, the arrow flying across the bar and scoring a line along her left calf. It's not enough to take her out, but it does make her stumble. Clint chases after her and the bruisers part to let him through. 

She goes down to one knee and waits until he’s in range, and then comes up swinging. Clint’s ready for the attack. He catches her fist in one hand, and when she crouches, bending her knees, Clint feels a slight tingle runs through her arm. She must be readying her gift. Clint tightens his grip around her fist.

“Stop,” he says, shaking her. “Just stop. I can see you, anyway.”

She glares at him, her delicate features even more beautiful up close. “No one can see me.”

“Yeah, well, I can,” Clint says. He realizes suddenly that he’s huffing for breath. He’s probably got a black eye blooming right now, and his ribs hurt. Two are definitely bruised, maybe broken. In contrast, the Black Widow looks untouched. Something about his words scares her, though, he can see it in her eyes.

“You _can_ see me, can't you?” she says, sounding amazed. “You saw me in the Council chambers, and you watched me fall. How is that possible?”

Clint shrugs. “Lady,” he says, “you got me. Now how about we sit down here for a second, let me catch my breath and buy you a drink, and we’ll talk about how awesome it would be if you’d come work for S.H.I.E.L.D.”

She blinks at him, obviously thrown. “You’re offering me a job? You do realize I just killed a man.”

Clint spots a table with an interference field and lets go of her fist, moving a few feet over to sit down. He groans and doesn't feel ashamed, because it feels so good to be off his feet. He could be up and running again in a heartbeat, of course, but the appearance of trust is important. 

“I realize you just stabbed a man with some unknown chemical, and that if he isn’t dead already, he probably will be soon. He's kind of a jackass, though, even if his legislation may do some real good. I figure it’s a slow acting poison, something that will kill him after the second vote, which is what HYDRA wants anyway. If you decide to help us, we can see if you’ve got an antidote someplace close. If you don’t, then we’ll take him to the best healers we can think of and hope the guy is lucky enough to survive. Either way, so long as you don’t actually kill me while we’re sitting here, S.H.I.E.L.D. will still want to talk.”

The Black Widow stares at him for a moment more. She’s still poised to run, her weight balanced on her toes, but Clint’s being nothing but honest here. She must see that, because something inside her settles. 

“Very well,” she says, relaxing enough to cross to his table and sit down opposite him. “We will talk.”

“Hey,” the big alien still standing by the exit says, as Clint raises a hand to Volley at the bar. “What about our credits?” The smaller alien beside him nods.

Clint flashes them a grin. “I was mistaken, it wasn't her at all. How bout a round on the house?” He looks to Volley. “Two Elba beer for me, something for the lady here, and whatever my two very good friends desire.” He glances at the aliens again. “Within reason, of course.”

The big alien grunts, but it’s a pleased sort of sound, and walks over to the bar. Volley rolls his eyes, but gets the drinks. Clint grins and looks over at the Black Widow. 

“Sorry, I don't know what you drink. Let Volley serve these brutes and then he’ll come and ask you what you'd like.”

The Black Widow crosses her arms in front of her chest. “I don’t want anything. Why did you order two Elba beer?”

“One’s for me,” Coulson says, out of the blue. Clint looks up as he suddenly appears beside their table, looking as calm and collected as a Jedi on vacation. “Ms. Romanova.”

“You know her name?” Clint asks. “I’ve been calling her ‘the Black Widow’ in my head for over a month now!”

Coulson does that thing where he almost smiles. “It’s a title she’s more than earned.”

Romanova flicks an eyebrow at him. “I could say the same of ‘Hawkeye’.”

Clint leans back and grins. “My reputation precedes me.” 

“The bow you leveled in my direction was very distinctive, though I thought you’d be better at hand-to-hand.”

Clint winces and resists the urge to poke at his rapidly swelling eye. “I’m working on it.”

Volley arrives with the beer. Coulson powers down the interference field, orders water and ice, and they wait. When the ice appears, Coulson wraps it in a napkin and hands it to Clint, who presses it over his face. 

It feels awesome.

“So, Ms. Romanova,” Coulson says when the field is active again, “I understand Agent Barton has offered you employment within S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Clint grimaces, because he knows that tone of voice and it means Clint is probably going to be in trouble later. He can’t really feel bad about it, though, because Romanova actually sounds hesitant when she replies. It could be an act, of course, but Clint doesn’t think so. He’s been in her position before.

“He mentioned it was an option,” she says. “You understand my position?”

Coulson doesn't say anything, but Clint leans forward. “HYDRA caught you and told you they’d be giving you your contracts now.”

She takes a sip of her water and eyes him over the glass. “Somewhat. They contacted my previous employers and negotiated a change of leadership. My contract shifted to them.”

“Change of leadership?” Clint asks. 

Beside him, Coulson looks thoughtful. “You were working for the Red Room,” he says. It’s not a question.

The Black Widow nods. “HYDRA commandeered that organization. The transition was… difficult.”

Clint feels confused. “Wait, I thought you were a free agent?” 

She shrugs. “That was my long-term cover. In actuality, I was an operative for the Red Room, a secret Sith-led organization on the Outer Rim. We were quiet, but powerful.” She scowls. “That is, until HYDRA took over.”

“Quiet, they are not,” Coulson agrees.

“No,” the Black Widow says. She eyes them both. “I thought you were Jedi?”

“That was our cover for the mission,” Coulson says. “My real name is Agent Phil Coulson of the Strategic Hazard Integrated Espionage Lightsaber Division. This is Agent Clint Barton, also known as Hawkeye. We were instructed to bring you in.”

“You were instructed to have me killed,” she corrected.

Clint shrugs. “Bringing you in is better than just killing you. I think the Director will agree.”

Coulson’s twitch doesn’t quite hide his smile. The Black Widow stares at them both. “You are crazy,” she says, “but the kind of crazy I like. Tell me more about S.H.I.E.L.D.”


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another huge round of applause to my beta's, who thankfully do not live in my head and are able to tell me when things don't make sense. Thank you!!

Natasha’s pretty awesome.

Clint came to this realization about five seconds after meeting her, of course, but it’s pounded into him during her first month with S.H.I.E.L.D. Literally. She wipes the floor with him during hand-to-hand practice, and Clint develops a very close and personal relationship with the floor. He's got her beat on the sniper front, though.

The Director isn’t happy about the way the op went down, but in the end Natasha admitted that she _had_ used a slow acting poison against Senator Born and did possess the antidote needed to save him. Clint hopes the scare has opened the Senator’s eyes to the dangers of playing both ends against the middle – it turns out he’d gone to HYDRA for some help with his legislation, and then double-crossed them when someone else offered him a better deal – but Clint doubts it. People like that never change.

Natasha spends her first week at S.H.I.E.L.D. debriefing with officials far more senior than Clint. Coulson sits in on some of the meetings. Clint knows he’s gone to bat for Natasha, and that's probably why she’s spending her time beating Clint up on the practice mat instead of slowly decomposing in a shallow grave somewhere. He appreciates it, but he knows Natasha’s not sure how to feel.

She’s obviously never had anything like this before. Clint doesn’t understand what the Red Room was or how it operated, but she’s been consistently wide-eyed at the amount of freedom she has on the _Helicarrier Gold_. With her particular Force gifts, Fury knows she could get into every secure area S.H.I.E.L.D. has, so the Director has taken the simple step of granting her unrestricted access and letting her loose.

She could have killed half the ship in their sleep and made off with an unprecedented amount of restricted information, but it seems that was a risk the Director was willing to take.

Really, it's _Clint_ who Fury's pissed with the most. He’s reduced Clint’s security clearance and barred him from all active missions for at least three months. Clint would be more upset about that, but it means he gets to hang out with Natasha instead of gallivanting about the galaxy, so he actually considers it a pretty sweet deal. Coulson is going to be her handler until she gets her feet under her, just as he was with Clint, and that’s awesome. That means Natasha's getting the best there is. She doesn't really appreciate it enough, so Clint thanks Coulson for her.

“I'm sure I have no idea what you mean, Agent,” Coulson says, but he smiles, and he keeps smiling for the rest of the day.

The three of them spend a lot of time together trying to understand how Clint and Natasha's abilities interact. No one can quite figure it out, and so far Coulson’s initial guess seems to be winning. He and Natasha just seem to operate on the same wavelength – literally.

No matter how hard he tries, he can’t shield himself from her. Even when Coulson’s effectively forgotten that he’s there, which is very hard to do and gives Clint a headache, Natasha never loses sight of him. Ditto for his ability to sense her. Clint’s seen an entire room of people suddenly look somewhere else, but to him nothing about her ever changes.

It’s frustrating for the R&D people, but it’s absolutely awesome for Clint. It’s like he’s found, in some strange pocket of the galaxy, a twin sister. In the short time they’ve known each other, Natasha’s become the closest thing he has left to family.

It changes things between Clint and Coulson, though. Coulson’s being… distant. Clint's not sure what to make of it.

Evidently, Natasha isn't either. 

“Are you and Coulson having sex?” she asks one day, after Coulson’s left the room. Clint chokes on the water he’s been sipping from a bottle. Today’s exercise had involved turning their Force awareness on and off while doing gymnastics, and he's thirsty. 

“Excuse me?” he sputters.

“Are you and Coulson,” Natasha repeats, with an arched eyebrow that he’s already learned means _don’t be an idiot_ , “having sex? Is that normal for assets and handlers within S.H.I.E.L.D? Is that something I’ll be expected to do?”

“ _No_ ,” Clint blurts out, before he can stop himself. “I mean,” he explains, “it’s something that happens between people sometimes, and you have to file the paperwork if it’s going to be a long-term thing, but everyone’s mostly okay with it. You absolutely _do not_ have to have sex with anyone if you don’t want to. If you find someone you like, well, then go for it.”

“And if I like Coulson?”

Clint finds himself grinding his teeth together. He stops. He's never been possessive about a person before, not even someone he _was_ sleeping with, and he's not going to start now. “If you like Coulson, then you'll have to talk to him about it. It doesn't have anything to do with me.”

“So the two of you are not having sex?”

“No,” Clint says, unclenching his hands. “You're more than welcome to make a move.”

Natasha cocks her head, thinking. “No, I don't think I will. I don't believe he’s attracted to me that way. It's different with you, though.”

Now he's confused. “What's different with me?”

“Coulson,” Natasha explains impatiently. “He's attracted to you. And you’re attracted to him, as well.”

Clint thinks about denying it, but he doesn't really see the point. “Yes, I am.”

“Then why are you not having sex?”

Clint rolls his eyes and turns away. “It's complicated.”

Natasha frowns. “I don't see how. It’s not like it’s difficult.”

“Not the sex part,” Clint says with a laugh, even though he kind of thinks that yeah, sometimes it kind of is, “but being with someone, getting close to a person like that... it's hard.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “You wouldn’t sleep in the same bed with him after, obviously. Still, I thought you trusted him.”

“With my life,” Clint tells her honestly.

“Then what’s the problem?”

Clint rubs a hand through his hair. “It's not just... listen, there's trusting someone with your life, and trusting someone with your heart, okay? I like Coulson. I like him too much for sleeping with him not to mean anything, and I'm not sure if I want it to mean anything.”

Natasha stares at him for a moment before shaking her head. “I don’t understand.”

“Just forget about it,” he tells her. She gives him a look, but does, letting the subject drop. She never brings it up again, but Clint doesn't find it nearly so easy to let go.

The thing is, Natasha's not wrong – Clint _does_ trust Coulson, implicitly. In many ways, he's trusted Coulson since Ralavi, since that first morning on the _Helicarrier Gold_. But Clint knows that he's not wrong, either – trusting someone with your life and trusting someone with your heart are two different things.

Trusting someone with his life is easy. His heart, well...

His heart's another story.

 

*

 

It isn’t long before Natasha completes basic orientation and is sent on her first mission with Coulson as her handler. Clint’s security clearance is still reduced, so he can’t go with them, but he meets them on the flight deck of _Helicarrier Gold_ after the op.

“How did it go?” Clint asks. The lambda class shuttle they’d used to sneak into and out of Bpfassh is in one piece. Coulson looks unharmed, and even a little pleased - he has that I’m-smiling-on-the-inside look about him.

“It was fine,” Coulson says, and, yup - he’s definitely happy. “Natasha’s performance was exemplary, as expected. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you for now. If you’ll both excuse me,” he says, looking over his shoulder at Natasha, who’s just emerging from the shuttle, “I have a report to write.” He nods at them both and walks away.

Clint turns to Natasha with a grin. “He’s ecstatic.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “He’s a liar - he already wrote his report.”

“Nah, that’s just the first draft,” Clint explains. “Now he’ll sit in his office and rewrite it.” He shrugs. “It’s his thing, I don’t know, it’s weird.” He can’t help but smile, though.

Natasha peers at him. “Are you _sure_ the two of you are not having sex?”

Clint laughs. “I’m sure. Come on, I’ve got congratulatory cookies for you.”

Natasha eats his cookies, and then presents him with a set of his own - with purple frosting, no less - when Fury finally loosens up and restores his security clearance a month later.

Clint’s allowed off the ship again. He keeps up his Hawkeye persona and takes a couple of contracts, and life settles into a new sort of normal. He and Natasha aren’t deployed together, but they hang out when they’re both on the _Helicarrier Gold_ at the same time. They’ll spar, and raid the cafeteria, and epically _not_ discuss their childhoods. It’s awesome. 

Clint does his best to hang out with Coulson, too, but he’s still being distant. It’s weird. Clint’s allowed to crash on his couch and bounce ideas about op’s off of him, but if he ever tries to talk about anything personal, or Natasha, Coulson gets - tense. He pulls back, sometimes literally, like the time Clint had reached over him to tap on a pad and Coulson had actually _leaned out of the way_ to give him more space.

That had been strange. Coulson’s never done that before. Clint tries to bring it up with Natasha.

“It’s because he’s attracted to you,” she tells him, with a _you are very stupid_ tone in her voice. “Just kiss him and get it over with.”

“I - well. What if - ? ” Clint stutters, and then stops and shuts his mouth. Force curse it. 

She might not be wrong. That might be exactly what’s going on, and if Clint could simply get his act together, there's a chance everything could work out, but he's _Clint Barton_. When has anything ever gone that way for him?

Except recently, of course. Except since Coulson came into his life. 

Clint hangs his head and leaves the gym where Natasha is practicing, and goes back to sit platonically on Coulson’s couch. He has to just suck it up and focus on enjoying Coulson’s friendship. He has to stop wishing for what he can’t have. 

It isn’t easy. Clint looks at Coulson, and he _wants_. 

Sam picks up on it, of course, the next time they meet for drinks after a job. They go back to the _Falcon_ and get into bed like they usually do, but Clint's not feeling it.

All he can think about is Coulson's eyes and Coulson's hands, and the dissonance is jarring.

Sam doesn't get upset with him, which pretty much confirms his status as the absolute best sentient in the galaxy. “It's okay, Clint,” he says, and if anything he sounds like he's going to laugh. “You've really got it bad, don't you?”

“Shut up,” Clint whines, his voice muffled by his pillow. They're still in Sam's bed on the _Falcon_ , and Clint wonders if he can bury himself under the covers and never come out again. 

“Am I ever going to get to meet this mystery man who's captured your heart?” Sam asks. “Or are you going to pine forever from a distance?”

Clint doesn't tell him that he's seriously considering it. He snags a corner of the blanket and draws it up over himself. “You’re the worst. Go away.”

“It's my ship, buddy,” Sam says, actually laughing now.

Clint glares, but as he's under the covers, Sam can't see. Sam still pats Clint on the shoulder, though, the pressure of his palm muted by the layers between them. 

“Just let me know if there's anything I can do to help, okay?” Sam asks, a little more gently. “If you need to run, hide, get drunk – anything. Just call me, okay?”

“I will,” Clint promises, meaning it. Natasha's awesome, but she doesn't get this stuff like Sam does. 

He doesn't deserve such friends.

He means to sleep in the galley that night, but Sam rolls his eyes and wraps him in a platonic hug when he mentions it. “Don't be an idiot. Go to sleep, you're exhausted.”

He is. He's taken three contracts in four weeks, and he's due to rendezvous with the _Helicarrier Gold_ tomorrow. Closing his eyes, Clint listens to the Sam's even breathing at his side, and sleeps.

In the morning, he feels better. He hides a couple of hundred credits in Sam's room – it's become a game between them, because Sam insists he doesn't need the money but Clint's got more of it than he knows what to do with now – and leaves after one last gripping hug. When he gets back to the _Helicarrier Gold_ , he goes to find Fury and give his report. On his way back to his quarters, he pokes his head into Coulson's office.

“Hey,” he says, seeing Coulson sitting at his desk.

“You're back,” Coulson answers as he looks up from his reports. “How did the mission go?”

Clint shrugs and steps inside the office, collapsing onto Coulson's couch. “Fine. There was no problem with the hits and no need for backup to engage. I sent Woo home and made my own way back.”

Coulson's expression changes. It's subtle, but Clint knows him too well. He’s - upset? No. Jealous? No. 

“I'm glad you had a good time,” Coulson says. “You look...” he hesitates for a brief moment, offering Clint a small smile. “You look better.”

“I feel better,” Clint admits. “It's nice to get off ship, sometimes. Helps me put things in perspective.”

Coulson nods, the movement sharp. “Yes, that's certainly true.”

The silence between them is suddenly awkward. Clint opens his mouth to say something – anything – when Coulson beats him to it. 

“Natasha returned to the ship last night.”

Clint smiles. “Oh good. Did her mission with Sitwell go okay?”

Coulson nods. He licks his lips. “She, ah – I know it's none of my – ” He breaks off, looking pained. Clint watches as he puts down his pad, giving Clint every measure of his attention. “Clint,” he starts again, not quite meeting his eyes, “I consider you one of my closest friends.”

Clint smiles, a delicious shiver running through his belly. _Platonic,_ he tells himself. Platonic. “I... feel the same.”

Coulson nods, but it's an unhappy expression. “Natasha is becoming a friend as well. I know it's not my place, but I'm asking as a friend, not as a colleague or a superior, does she know of your... relationship... with Sam Wilson?”

Clint blinks. “You know about Sam?”

“He's noted in your file,” Coulson explains. “S.H.I.E.L.D. investigated him when we were first considering you for recruitment.”

“Oh,” Clint says, thinking back. “I guess that makes sense. Sam's one of the only consistent contacts I've had.”

“Exactly,” Coulson tells him, sounding relieved. “I – we – didn't want to invade his privacy unnecessarily, but we did look into where he came from and how the two of you met. To be honest, it was a point in your favour – it was clear from that interaction that you were more than a mindless assassin.”

“Right,” Clint agrees. “So, um, what does this have to do with Natasha?”

“Nothing,” Coulson hurries to say. “That is, I was just wondering...” he blushes, “well, if the two of them have ever met.”

Clint laughs. “Sam and Natasha? Oh no, that's a terrible idea.”

“It is?”

“Oh yeah,” Clint tells him. “Sam is one of the best people I've ever met – he's kind, considerate, and funny. You'd think he'd be a pushover, but he's not. That man has a core of steel inside of him. Natasha likes people with steel. They'd get along like a Corellian and a card game.”

“Good point,” Coulson says, sounding awkward again. He looks back at his paperwork. “Forget I said anything.”

“That's okay. It's nice, actually, knowing you have my back, that you think of things like this.” Clint smiles. “You're a good friend, Coulson.”

Coulson smiles back. There's something sad about it, but it's real. “You can call me Phil, you know.”

Clint blinks. “Really?”

“Of course you can,” Coulson says. “If you want to, that is.”

“I do,” Clint assures him. “I do, it's just – weird.”

Coulson quirks an eyebrow. “I don't look like a Phil?”

“No, you do, you totally do,” Clint tries to explain, fumbling. How can he say that referring to Coulson by his first name feels far too intimate, that it erases even more of his resolve not to spontaneously jump the man? “It'll just take some getting used to.”

Coulson nods stiffly. He glances back at his paperwork. 

“What are you working on?” Clint asks, a little desperately.

“It's a follow up out of Coruscant,” Coulson says, sounding as relieved as Clint feels to change the subject. “Have you heard of the name Bruce Banner before?”

Clint searches his memory but draws a blank. “Not that I can recall.”

“He's a scientist working with the Galactic Alliance military, or at least he was. He's an expert on the Force. Despite having no Force abilities himself, he has been working on a way to sense the Force using machinery.”

“That sounds interesting.”

Coulson nods. “It is. He’s speculated that the Force operates on a wavelength that can be detected using specially built equipment. Some individuals over the years have argued that the Light Side of the Force is one wavelength, an alpha wave, and the Dark Side of the Force is another, a beta wave. Banner argues that the Force is neither Light nor Dark, but is rather a third wave, a 'gamma' wave. He thinks these gamma waves can be detected and used to pinpoint both beings with great Force ability and objects imbued with Force power.”

“Objects can hold the Force?” Clint asks. He's never felt that before, but then again, his Force sensing abilities are basically nil.

Coulson nods. “Objects used by notable Force users can become saturated with some element of the Force. The shield used by Steve Rogers, for example, was described as having Force powers even when separated from him.”

Clint shakes his head. “Rumours, Coulson. Steve Rogers lived over a thousand years ago. How can you trust a story that's been around that long?”

“Rumours often have some basis in fact,” Coulson argues. “I've been interested in the story of Steve Rogers since I was a boy. It's a fascinating tale.”

Clint leans back and grins. He likes the idea of Coulson as a boy – it sounds adorable. He wonders if anyone has pictures. “Did you have dreams of finding him?”

Coulson shares a small smile. “Of course I did, what child didn't? I thought I'd grow up to be a space pirate like Han Solo, with a treasure map on my pad and the fastest ship in the galaxy under my feet.”

Clint hopes had been more mundane, usually for a hot meal or a real family. He likes this glimpse of Coulson’s childhood, though. “Would you have found just Rogers, or the rest of the _Howling Commandos_ , too?” 

“Everything,” Coulson admits. “Rogers, his crew, the ship, even his shield. I'd become his sidekick and we'd gallivant around the galaxy.” 

Clint grins. “Phil Coulson, the next Bucky Barnes.”

Coulson smiles, glancing back down at his reports. “Yes, well. It was a childhood fantasy.”

“You have time,” Clint reminds him with a grin. “You could buy a ship when you retire from S.H.I.E.L.D. and track him down. There's always rumours of _Commando_ sightings on the Outer Rim.”

Coulson shakes his head. “Wiser heads than mine have tried. All sources agree that the _Commando_ left the Sluis Van Shipyards en route for Coruscant and vanished. There's been no trace of the ship since.”

Clint shrugs. “I have more faith in you than I do in a thousand years of investigation,” he says. “So, what happened to this Bruce Banner?”

“Right,” Coulson says, shaking his head and glancing back to the report. “Well, it does relate to Steve Rogers, but it's not exactly a happy ending. The military heard of Banner's experiments and wanted to put them to use. Banner had theorized that these gamma waves – called rays when directed at a target, apparently – might have been the 'vita rays' used in the original super soldier project. They bullied Banner into testing a military application of his research, but the only objects the military had access to that were a significant source of gamma rays were artifacts left in storage by Emperor Palpatine. ”

Clint winces. “I've got a bad feeling about this.”

“Exactly,” Coulson agrees. “I don't know if I believe Banner's hypothesis – certainly, I think that the Force is a neutral party, that how we choose to use it is more important. There are, however, places where the Dark Side of the Force feels stronger. Areas such as that feel... different... than other locations in the galaxy. Colder.” He taps the datapad. “The military – a General Ross – used one of the relics left by the Emperor in Banner's experiment. There was an accident, and Banner was targeted by the device.”

“Ouch,” Clint says. “Did he live?”

Coulson raises an eyebrow. “We’re not sure.”

Clint blinks. “What happened?”

Coulson glances back at his pad. “It's somewhat difficult to tell. All security footage of the incident was destroyed, some accidentally and some, I suspect, on purpose. What we know is that there was an explosion, and no one has seen Banner since. Ross, however, survived. There have been several reports since circulating of a large, Force-repelling creature in the area.” Coulson indicates the pad. “Local news reports are calling it a 'Hulk'. I have a bad feeling that it might be Banner.”

Clint breathes out through his nose. “You think he was transformed, like Rogers was?”

Coulson nods. “Rogers went from small and sickly to the super soldier we know him as today. His Force abilities, present but always described as minor, were significantly enhanced. I believe that something similar happened to Banner, only because he was previously unable to use the Force, and now he somehow repels it?” Coulson shakes his head. “Either way, Fury is sending me to Coruscant. My job will be to locate Banner – or this 'Hulk' – and bring him in. If he does have Force abilities, he’ll need to be trained.”

Clint frowns. “I don't like this, boss. Tell me Natasha's going with you.”

“No. Natasha is doing well circulating between different handlers. You're being sent to the Tion Cluster with Sitwell tomorrow. Besides, this Hulk is on the run. It will be easier to find him alone.”

“That's ridiculous, sir,” Clint protests. “What if he's seriously Dark Side? What are you going to do?”

Coulson shoots him a look. “I have faced Sith Lords before, you know.”

Clint snorts, thinking of Ralavi. “Yeah, and last time I was there to watch your back.”

“You were,” Coulson says with a small smile. For a minute, the awkwardness between them recedes. “I'll be okay, Clint. I might not even find him. Coruscant is a busy planet, after all.”

Clint grits his teeth. “Just be careful, okay?”

Coulson nods. “I will.”

 

*

 

He _will_ be careful, Clint knows, but he still doesn't like it. He tracks Fury down after leaving Coulson's office and tries to convince the Director to let him accompany Coulson into the field. Fury says no, and to discourage Clint from tagging along regardless, informs him that the mission to the Tion Cluster is now a Priority Two. 

Priority Two means that if Clint and Sitwell can’t complete the mission, whatever’s going wrong could become a galaxy-wide issue. Clint honestly considers blowing Sitwell off and doubling back to keep an eye on Coulson anyway, but Natasha stops him.

“You have to trust him to take care of himself,” she says, calmly sitting across from where he's pacing a hole in the floor. “Coulson was on his own with S.H.I.E.L.D. for years before we came onto the scene.”

“Yes, but we're here now,” Clint argues. “We should be allowed to help.”

“You know that Fury's a Jedi,” Natasha tells him. “He cannot do what you or I can do, or enhance his strength and speed like Coulson, but he has other abilities. If he says Coulson should go alone on this mission, then alone he must go. He is the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. for a reason, after all.”

Clint stops pacing long enough to stare at her. “Are you saying that Director Fury can, what? See the future?”

“There were those in the Red Room who could, who argued against forming an alliance with HYDRA,” she informs him. “They were ignored, and look at the organization now.” She holds his gaze. “What I am saying is that Fury would not send his best friend on this mission alone if he had a choice in the matter.” She stands and pats Clint’s shoulder. “Coulson will be okay.”

Clint doesn't like it, but he lets Coulson go. He heads out with Sitwell the next day and they complete a series of missions in the Tion Cluster. Clint kills two prominent members of HYDRA and steals several pads containing data that Sitwell says will have great import in the years to come. They do good work.

He gets back to the _Helicarrier Gold_ six weeks after leaving it to learn that Coulson had only beat them home by three days. He did, in the end, find Banner – or rather, the Hulk.

“It's incredible,” Coulson tells him when Clint tracks him down to his office. “He can actually transform from his human appearance into the Hulk. It's not a controlled transformation, and the Hulk is certainly in danger of falling to the Dark Side, but Banner is learning. I taught him what I could about mastering his Force repellant abilities, but he's too dangerous to risk bringing back to the ship. He needs to learn to control his transformation first, and to do that, he must be somewhere safe.”

“So where's he going?” Clint asks.

“I don't know,” Coulson admits. “He said he would try and find a relatively uninhabited planet, some place where neither the Galactic Alliance nor HYDRA could find him. I left him information on how to contact us if he ever requires assistance.”

“I bet Fury's pissed at you,” Clint guesses.

Coulson shrugs. “If he is, it’s his fault. He shouldn't have sent me in alone.”

Clint laughs. He's glad to have Coulson back. “I was worried about you, sir.”

“I know you were,” Coulson tells him, a small smile appearing on his face. “I appreciate your concern.”

“Yeah, well, tagging around after Sitwell gets old after a week or two. So, do you know what the Director has planned for us next?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Coulson admits. He tosses Clint a datapad.

“Hoth?” Clint asks. He shivers reflexively. “I hate the cold, sir.”

Coulson shrugs. “I know you do, but this mission is important. The Director wants his best on it.”

“And that means me?” Clint asks with a grin.

“That means both of us,” Coulson corrects, but he’s smiling. “Plus Sitwell and a team of twenty S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, half scientists and half security.”

Clint blinks. “What, no Natasha?”

Coulson shakes his head. “Natasha is being assigned to Corellia to watch over Tony Stark.”

Clint frowns. He's been keeping an eye on Stark since Tatooine. The man has continued to work on the armour he'd used to escape the Ten Rings. He's named it 'Iron Man' and has become something of a celebrity on his home planet. 

“I heard he's stopped SI from manufacturing weapons and has decided to focus on power generation instead.”

Coulson nods. “That, and several other seemingly altruistic – if profitable – endeavors. We still suspect the late Obadiah Stane engineered his kidnapping, though, and there are reports of a new enemy now gunning for Tony Stark. He doesn’t appear concerned, but I've been in contact with Ms. Pepper Potts, Mr. Stark's previous personal assistant and now the head of his company. She's requested help, and the Director has decided to send in Natasha.”

“What's her mission going to be?”

“Primarily to protect Stark. She’ll be undercover as his new assistant, and if she has a chance, she’s also to investigate these threats against his person.”

Clint nods. “Natasha will get to the bottom of it.”

“Indeed she will,” Coulson agrees. “In the meantime, you and I will be on our way to Hoth.”

“The ice planet of the galaxy,” Clint says with a groan. “I'll pack my parka.”

He reads his briefing packet en route to his room. Apparently, a mysterious unidentified object has landed near the deep-space research station located on Hoth. S.H.I.E.L.D. is sending in their team in to investigate. 

Clint shakes his head. Fury knows damn well that he's no scientist, and Fury wouldn’t send Coulson on a milk-run without a reason. There has to be something more going on.

He downloads the history they have on the planet before they leave, and queues it up on his pad while they travel. Clint's the sharpshooter among a S.H.I.E.L.D. crew of twenty, all agents cross-trained in both security and the sciences. They’re bringing along enough equipment for a mobile base, though reports have indicated the deep-space research station might be close enough to the impact site to house the operation.

“Whoa,” he says, noting the length of the file, “that's a few petabytes more data than I thought. What's the scoop, sir?”

Coulson glances over at him and smiles. They're sitting in the back of a retrofitted JS-77C interstellar shuttle that's designed to carry thirty passengers or more, but with the amount of equipment they're carrying, space is pretty tight. Clint doesn't mind, since it means he gets to sit thigh-to-thigh with Coulson and he can’t even argue himself out of it. 

“Sorry about the length of the file - galactic history is a hobby of mine, “ Coulson admits with a smile. “Hoth is more than an out-of-the-way ice ball – the Rebel Alliance had a base there for some time, and both Luke and Leia Skywalker were stationed there for a while before the Alliance lost the outpost during a critical battle with the Empire. It was from Hoth that Senator Organa and her entourage fled to Cloud City.”

“Okay, Cloud City I know,” Clint says, because the floating city is practically mecca for the mercenaries of the galaxy. “Is Hoth close to that smugglers pit?”

“Close enough,” Coulson tells him. “I understand the research station is located inside the old Rebel base barracks. It will be a fascinating piece of history to see.”

Clint makes a face. “The place has been cleaned once or twice in the last thousand years, right? I mean – that’s a long time for a human settlement to stand.”

Coulson nods. “From what I understand, the location of the base was lost for several hundred years. The planet is regularly bombarded by asteroids, and the tidal pull of Hoth’s three moons can cause fissures in the ice. The base was actually thought destroyed by the time the research scientists arrived. They discovered the site quite by accident – reports indicate it’s been remarkably well preserved by the cold.”

“What kind of research do they do there?” 

“Deep-space telemetry. Hoth is on the edge of the known galaxy and apparently offers an extraordinary glimpse into the vast reaches of intergalactic space.”

Clint nods. He'll buy that, but there has to be more. If Hoth is regularly bombarded by asteroids, a simple impact crater would not kick up this much of a fuss. There _must_ be something else going on here.

“Okay, then,” Clint agrees. “When do we arrive?”

Coulson smiles and leans over to tap to the next paragraph on Clint’s pad. “Not for a couple of hours yet. Sit back and relax, Agent - you might not have a chance to for a while after this.”


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My magnificent beta's were absolutely essential to this chapter. Thank you, ladies!!

Six hours later they make it to the system. Coulson stands and walks to the front of the transport. Sitwell is trying to radio the old Rebel base where the Deep Space Telemetry team has set up camp, but he’s not getting an answer. Clint, who’s followed close on Coulson’s heels, watches him frown.

“Are they there?” Clint asks, looking through the viewport. The planet is just coming into view. It’s completely white, the swirling snow and distant clouds painting a faint white-on-white pattern that would be beautiful if they weren’t planning on landing in it.

Coulson cocks his head, as if listening to a distant sound. “I think so,” he says, before looking down at Sitwell. “What do the sensors say?”

Sitwell, sitting in the pilot’s seat, makes a face at their equipment. “I'm getting some really strange readings from the planet's surface. We'll know more once we can start crunching the data, but life signs are coming through loud and clear. _Someone's_ alive down there.”

Coulson nods. “Okay, take us down.”

“To the research station?” Sitwell asks.

“No,” Coulson answers, indicating the screen. “If they aren't responding, we have to assume the worst. I won't risk the entire crew. Set us down at the meteor site and begin construction of the temporary base. I'll take Barton and investigate the research location alone. If we need assistance, we'll radio back.”

“I'll launch a sat-comm before we land,” Sitwell tells him. “Radio signals may be unreliable.”

Coulson nods. “Agreed.”

Clint only gets a glimpse of the impact site as they fly over. The landscape is one endless field of snow. There are hills and valleys that shift with the wind, but the impact site, in contrast, is perfectly flat. Clint can see the drifts of snow that have piled up around the crater, but none of it makes it’s way inside.

He frowns. “That's... weird.”

Coulson hums in acknowledgment. “Sitwell, take us down.”

The ship lands as close as it can to the crater while still remaining safe in case the edge crumbles away. Coulson steps out of the transport first, directing everyone to stay inside. Clint ignores him.

Coulson shoots him a look, but Clint shrugs. “I've got the Force sensitivity of a wet noodle, remember? If something strange hits you, I can at least drag you back.”

Coulson looks like he's going to argue, but Clint brushes past him out the hatch. He shivers as the wind hits his face. “Lick a Hutt’s balls, but that’s cold.”

“Eloquent as always, Barton,” Coulson says, following at his heels. He walks to the edge of the impact site and raises a hand. Clint scans the landscape, looking for threats. He knows Sitwell is doing the same behind him, from the ship.

Coulson shivers, and Clint doesn't think it's from the cold. “The Force is strong here. Very strong. I've... never felt anything quite like it before.”

“Is it keeping the snow away?” Clint asks. He peers into the crater. There's a mound in the middle, like a pillar, and something silver sitting atop it.

“I believe so, though it's not actually a physical barrier.” He lifts his hand and dangles it over the crater. “There's no resistance.”

Clint continues to stares at the mound. “It looks like a hammer, sir. Not a meteor at all.”

“A hammer?”

Clint shrugs. “A really weird, primitive looking hammer with a leather strap on it. There's no way that thing fell to the surface from space.”

Coulson peers towards the mound, but he doesn't have Clint's eyes. Coulson's told him that even when he enhances his senses with the Force, he can't see as well as Clint can. “I believe you,” he says, and then shakes his head. “Come on, let's turn Sitwell loose and go check up on the scientists. I want to know what happened here.”

Clint nods and follows him back to the ship. They leave Sitwell and the team to start taking readings and constructing the camp, taking a hard-cover skimmer across the snow to the old Rebel base. It flies a little rough, not accustomed to the cold. Clint manages to keep them airborne long enough for Coulson to try one last hail.

“Echo Base, Echo Base – this is Agent Coulson of S.H.I.E.L.D. Can you respond?”

They wait, but only static answers. Coulson looks grim as he indicates the base. “Take us down.”

The bay doors open automatically as they approach. Clint settles the skimmer on the hard packed snow, looking at the piles of equipment scattered around. The walls are carved out of ice and strung with electrical cables. Most of it seems ancient, but Clint can see where new lines have been added, modern adapters installed. _Someone's_ been here during the past few weeks. “Can you sense anything?” he asks.

Coulson hops down from the skimmer. “Let me see,” he says, “there's still interference from the impact site, I – ”

He stops. Clint turns around. Coulson’s face is pale, and he's staring at something Clint can't see, his gaze fixed and horror-stricken. 

“Sir?” Clint asks, stepping to his side. “Are you – ” He cuts himself off when Coulson starts to fall. “Shit! Coulson!” Clint catches him before he can hit the ground. “Phil, come on, answer me!”

For an endless second, Coulson says nothing. Finally, he starts in Clint's arms, blinking quickly. “Wha – Clint?”

“I'm here, sir,” Clint says, holding him close. “Are you okay?”

Coulson shakes his head, but tries to stand anyway. Clint helps him up. “I'm fine,” he says in a shaky voice. 

“Mixed signals here, sir,” Clint tries to joke. It falls flat as Coulson stumbles. “Shit, Coulson – sit down! Come back to the skimmer.”

“No,” Coulson says, pulling away from Clint's steadying grip. “No, really. I'm okay. I just...” he takes a deep breath. “It hit me hard, for a moment. The memories.”

“Memories?” Clint asks, confused. “Have you been here before?”

“No, not _my_ memories,” Coulson clarifies, “the memories of the Rebels who fled from this base. They were terrified.” His shoulders settle. “The presence of two Jedi probably helped tie some of that emotion to the scene, and the length of time the base was buried made sure the energy never dispelled. The deep space research team hasn't been here long enough to override the imprint.”

Coulson seems steadier. Clint lets him go, watching him carefully, but he doesn't fall over. “Two Jedi managed that?”

“Two very powerful Jedi, yes. Three, actually – Lord Vader also walked these halls, overseeing his triumph. I can feel him. He was so angry and disappointed, so proud and lost...” He shudders.

Clint hovers close. “Anything I can do to help?”

Coulson turns to smile at him. “No, I'm better now, thank you. You really can't feel anything?”

Clint shakes his head. “No. Nothing.”

“I'm glad,” Coulson says, surprising him. “It's not pleasant. I'll have to actively shield the entire time we're here to successfully block it out. Be on alert for surprises, please. I won't be able to sense anything coming.”

“Always, sir.”

Coulson takes an extra second to fortify himself, a line appearing between his brows, before squaring his shoulders and setting off down the corridor. Clint follows on his right, scanning their surroundings. The hallway bears little sign of recent activity, but at least it's lit. All around them are darkened corridors where a wall or a roof has caved in. There are still signs of the attack, mostly scorch marks left on the wiring. Once or twice, Clint sees the remains of a droid, blasted to scrap and left where it fell. 

They eventually come to an open area. Clint hears raised voices in the distance. Coulson turns towards them, and Clint follows him into an ancient command room.

“Scientifically _impossible_ , Darcy! There is no way that – ”

An angry brunette waving a tablet over her head pauses when Clint and Coulson appear around the corridor. She stares at them, her arms slowly lowering to her sides. “Uh... ”

“My name is Phil Coulson,” Coulson says calmly. “I am an agent for the Strategic Hazard Integrated Espionage Lightsaber Division. This is my partner, Agent Barton. Would you be Dr. Jane Foster, Dr. Erik Selvig, and Ms. Darcy Lewis of the Deep Space Telemetry Research Division?”

Clint watches the three people in the room swallow as one. Erik Selvig, he knows from the briefing report, is the older human male standing by the wall computer. On the screen is the ground location of the hammer/meteoroid where it hit the tundra, the impact crater clearly outlined on a map of the valley. 

Jane Foster is the brunette human female. Something about the arch of her nose says that she's from Corellia, but he could be wrong. According to their information, she's the brains of the operation, the main research scientist. Darcy Lewis is the pretty Twi'lek female with pale blue skin and generous figure. She's the first to recover from the surprise of their entrance, crossing her hands in front of her chest and glaring. “Great, the Suits have arrived. I told you so, Jane.”

Dr. Foster spares her a glance, then turns back to Coulson. “What are you doing here?”

Coulson merely lifts an eyebrow at her tone. “We received news of the extraordinary meteor that landed near here and were dispatched by S.H.I.E.L.D. to investigate. Why haven't you radioed for assistance, Dr. Foster? Or answered our hails when we arrived?”

Dr. Foster glares at them. “The radio is down. It died the moment the – the meteor appeared.”

Clint glances at Coulson. He's willing to bet that stutter was significant.

Coulson gives her a bland smile. “We've launched a sat-comm into low orbit, so thankfully communication will no longer be an issue. Are you okay? Have there been any other effects from the meteor?”

Dr. Foster shook her head. “N-no.” She blows out a breath. “Listen, I know what S.H.I.E.L.D. does, okay? You show up and you confiscate things, and I can't let that happen this time. I've been working on just this sort of experimental data for years now. I have to run the numbers.”

Coulson shrugs. “Of course, Dr. Foster. We've seen the meteor and cleared the site. We will have to examine your research and copy the readings you've taken to date, but you'll be allowed to keep all of your data and your equipment.”

The _for now_ goes unsaid. Clint's willing to bet they've all heard it, though. Ms. Lewis doesn't look impressed. “Really?” she growls, her brain tentacles swaying. “How generous of you.”

Clint knows no one else can see it, but Coulson smiles. It’s an expression more to do with the lines around his eyes. “Yes, Ms. Lewis. You are welcome to communicate with my second-in-command, Agent Jasper Sitwell, and visit the meteor site for yourself if you like. You will, of course, have to pass security checks to get in, but none of you will be denied entry.”

“Security checks?” Ms. Lewis demands. “We were here first!”

“This is not a Coruscant playground,” Coulson says, an edge in his voice. “This is now a potential threat to intergalactic security. As I said, you'll all be allowed access.” He holds everyone's gaze in turn, then turns to Dr. Foster. “Your data, please?”

She grumbles, but walks to a computer and types in a key. The data recording slot starts to hum. “You'll have it in a minute.”

Coulson nods and turns to Clint. Clint can see that Coulson shares his reservations about this group of scientists. They're obviously hiding something, but he can't decide what.

Inclining his head, Coulson beckons Clint to the side. In a low voice that won’t be overheard by the others, Coulson says, “I'm going to stay here with Foster and Selvig and see if I can get them to talk. I'd like you to go somewhere with Lewis. Take a look at the leftover machinery or something. Try to find out what they're hiding here, what it is they don't want us to know.”

Clint darts a gaze to the scientists and back. “You think Lewis is the key?” 

Coulson shrugs. “Foster might accidentally say something, she's keyed up enough, but Selvig isn’t talking. Lewis is different – she's not a scientist, and there's something about her...” Coulson trails off, concentrating. “I think she has Force abilities.”

Clint's eyebrows rise. “Really?”

Coulson doesn't look sure. “I think so. My shields are up, so I can't be certain, but I think she's aware of the echoes around us. It's just a hunch. If she is Force-sensitive, and she's out here instead of in training, she's probably had a bad experience with the Council. I think you'll have an easier time talking to her than me.”

“I'll do my best, sir,” Clint promises. 

Coulson gives him a smile. “I know you will.”

Foster is still standing by the computer, but Selvig and Lewis have gone back to opposite corners of the room. Selvig is taking notes on the map of the valley still on display by his station, and Lewis is watching everyone from the sidelines, glaring.

Clint leaves Coulson to question the scientists and drifts to her side. “Hey, did you guys find any of the old Rebel snowspeeders when you moved in? Our skimmer almost didn't make it. The engine kept shorting out.”

Lewis spears him with a suspicious glance, and Clint keeps his mind open and unconcerned, even though it feels unnatural.

Finally, Lewis shrugs. “Sure. There's a few left in one of the docking bays. I guess the Rebels didn't have enough pilots, or something. I don't know if they fly, though.”

“Could you show me where they are?” Clint asks. He gestures to where Coulson and Foster are talking. “I don't know about you, but none of this gobbledygook makes sense to me.”

That earns him a tentacle flick. “You aren't a physicist?”

Clint huffs out a laugh. “Hell no. I'm just the guy they take along to shoot things. Extra security, that kind of thing.”

Lewis watches him for a moment more, then shrugs. “Sure,” she says, “back this way.”

Clint follows her away from the command center and through the rest of the base. There are more old, unused corridors, and the farther away they get from the occupied areas, the more signs of battle he can see. Finally, they reach the rear bay. It's colder than the rest of the base.

“Brrr,” he says, looking around. “You got a door open somewhere, or what?”

Lewis points to the overhead hatch. “Some of the equipment was damaged during the original fight and we haven't had a chance to repair it. The Imperials busted their way through here, you know.”

Clint walks into the bay, noting the various pieces of blasted junk. “Yeah, I heard. Never really cared all that much for history, but Coulson's a junkie. He'd love all this stuff.”

“Yeah?” Lewis says, but she sounds suspicious again. “He looks like a stuffy old suit.”

Clint chuckles. “He kinda is, but in a good way. He helped me out when I was in a bad place, on the run from some bad people. Well,” he amends, “we helped each other out, but it was Coulson who offered me a job.”

“Who were you on the run from?” Lewis asks, sounding curious.

“This semi-Force-using group on the Outer Rim,” Clint tells her. “I'm no Jedi, but I have a skill or two. These guys wanted me to use it to their advantage.”

Lewis stares at him. “You can use the Force? How come the Council never scooped you up?”

Clint shrugs. “I'm not powerful enough.” At her incredulous look, he goes on. “No, really. I mean – Coulson nearly keeled over the moment we stepped foot in here, and me, I can't feel anything. No ghosts, no tingle, no nothing.” He looks at her, at the way her fingers have gone white. “Why? Can you?”

“All the time,” she blurts, before clamping her lips shut. She looks terrified.

“Hey,” Clint tells her, “it's okay.” He perches on an old, overturned crate. “I work for S.H.I.E.L.D., not the Council. I won't go blabbing or anything.”

Lewis doesn't look like she believes him, but she swallows. “It, uh, it started about the time we got here. Before then I could just feel stuff sometimes, you know? Do little things.” She lifts her fingers and a shot of electricity dances between them. 

Clint lifts an eyebrow, impressed, but she shrugs. “It's not much. My brother told me to keep quiet about it, warned me about the Council. He was killed when I was eight, along with our parents. I escaped the bar we were employed at and traveled around for a bit.”

Clint knows the kind of past that simple sentence covers up. “Ah, shit,” he says with feeling. “I'm an orphan, too. I lived that life. I was older, though.” He'd been seventeen when Trickshot had turned on him and he'd had to leave the circus. He can't imagine surviving that when he was a kid.

Lewis nods, looking relieved. “Yeah, it was hard. I got lucky and ran into Selvig before I could be captured and sold. He saved me. We met Jane later and we all came here. Selvig and Jane are both really smart. Jane's working on this Bridge thing that she thinks can bypass the space between galaxies. I don't know why she's so interested in finding out what's beyond the Rim, but she is.” Lewis shrugs. “I'm just here to look out for them, really.”

“But you can hear the ghosts?” Clint asks quietly.

She shivers. “Yeah. They whisper to me at night, telling me about their lives, about how they died. There was one man who stayed on the radio as long as he could, warning people to get out. _Imperial troops have entered the base. Imperial troops have –_ ” She stops. “I hear that voice all the time in my dreams.”

Clint isn't really a hugging kind of person, but the kid looks like she could use it. She's younger than Clint had first thought, maybe not even eighteen. “Shit,” he says, and opens his arms.

Lewis seems to surprise herself by falling into them. They hug for a moment, and she sniffles, then steps back. “Thanks,” she says, embarrassed, toeing at the frozen ground.

“Any time,” Clint says with a gentle smile. He hesitates. “You know, it's possible for most Force-sensitive people to learn to shield themselves. You could block the voices from your head.”

Lewis looks up, shocked. “Really?”

Clint nods. “I'm not sure how, my shields are kind of different from most other people's, but I'm sure Coulson could show you.”

Her face twists. “I'm not sure I want to tell him about this.”

“He can help you,” Clint assures her. “I trust him. He's saved my life too many times to count. You don't have to tell him everything, but I bet he can teach you how to shield.”

Lewis looks as if she's thinking that over. “Maybe,” she says, and then looks around. “You want to find those speeders now?”

“Definitely,” Clint says. He hops off the crate, and they search the bay together.

Coulson comes by an hour or so later. Clint's on his back underneath a speeder, studying the wiring. He can see where the machine has been adapted to the cold, and he's pretty sure it would run if he turned it on.

“How's it going?” Coulson asks as he wanders in.

“Pretty good,” Clint says, struggling out from under the speeder. “Two of the three here look like they might work, though I can't say for how long. There's a whole bunch of ancient junk here, sir. I bet you're in Candyland.”

Coulson's lips twitch in a smile. “It is fascinating, I agree. Please see if you can get one running. I'd like to take it back to our temporary base if we can.”

“Sure,” Clint says, then looks to where Darcy is carefully holding herself back. They've been chatting ever since Clint started working on the speeders. He still doesn't know what Foster and Selvig are hiding, but he's been trying to convince Darcy to talk with Coulson about her Force abilities.

She seeing him looking now, and scowls. After a minute, though, she turns to Coulson, determination and trepidation warring on her face. “Do you have... I mean, could you... can you teach me how to shield?” she finally blurts out in a rush.

Coulson watches her for a moment, and then his face relaxes into the calm, confident smile that Clint knows so well. “Of course I can, Ms. Lewis. Why don't we sit down over here?”

Darcy nods, her brain tentacles shivering, and follows him over to a back corner that's a little warmer than the rest of the bay. 

Clint works on one of the speeders while they talk. He can see Coulson teaching her how to sit cross-legged, hands on her knees, while she carefully constructs a shield in her mind. Clint hadn't been lying when he said Coulson was a better teacher at that kind of stuff than he was – his own Force abilities are so different than what Coulson and Darcy seem to have, that his techniques work for no one but Natasha.

Natasha is the only one who understands it, who gets how the Force can appear in waves and lines, how he can bend them to the side and wrap them tightly around himself so no one can see. Clint misses her, fiercely.

Nat's on Corellia following Stark around, though. He looks over to where Darcy is sitting with Coulson. The lines around her eyes have softened. She looks better. 

Coulson looks perfect. As always.

Clint averts his eyes and goes back to tinkering with the speeders. It takes him another few minutes, but then one is rumbling to life. It hovers a few feet off the ground and starts warming the air in the bay. Clint whoops. “It's _alive_!”

“Good job,” Coulson says, walking up to him. Clint grins at him and shuts down the speeder, lowering it back to the now-thawing floor. “Think you can pilot it back to base?”

“Definitely,” Clint answers him. “I had to cannibalize one of the other speeders for parts, but there are two others here that should run now, too.” He looks over at Darcy and sees her smile. “How're you feeling?”

“Better,” she tells him, relief in her eyes. “I think I might actually sleep tonight.”

“I'm glad,” Clint says, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder.

Coulson looks over at her with a smile. “Ms Lewis is incredibly talented. She's got some thinking to do about her future, but I've assured her that the decision shall be hers alone. I think there is much she could learn from the Jedi Council, even if she decides not to complete her training with them.”

“You offer her a job at S.H.I.E.L.D. yet, sir?” he teases. “I know you and Woo are in the running for the number of most awesome recruits.”

“I have you, Agent Barton,” Coulson says with a smile, “so I've already won.”

Clint has to bite his lip to keep his grin under control. Beside them, Darcy rolls her eyes. “Oh mothers, get a room.”

Clint blushes and ducks his head, turning back to the speeder before Coulson can see. He hears Coulson and Darcy exchange a few words about meeting again tomorrow to practice her technique, and then Clint flies them back to the temporary base.

The snowspeeder is cramped but it hovers well. Clint lands them on the snow next to their transport and Sitwell meets them at the temporary base. “Nice ride,” he says with a raised eyebrow before turning serious again. “We have a situation.”

Clint and Coulson follow him inside the climate controlled environment they've constructed around the impact site. Sitwell leads them to a computer and points to a rolling string of data flowing across the screen.

“We started analyzing the data you sent from Dr. Foster as soon as it arrived an hour ago. I don't think she thought we'd really understand it, because we've found what she was trying to hide. The hammer is not the only thing that appeared several days ago. This came through, too.” 

He points to the screen where the list of data has reassembled itself into a picture generated by accumulated lines of radiation. It looks like a maelstrom, but there's a humanoid figure standing inside it. 

“What that?” Clint asks.

“This,” Sitwell says, tapping the chaos, “is an Einstein-Rosen bridge, and this,” he indicates the figure, “is a person coming through.”

“A live person?” Coulson asks sharply.

Sitwell shrugs. “As far as we can tell? Yes.”

Clint's eyebrows rise and his whistles. “Wow.”

“Yeah,” Sitwell agrees. “We haven't found any evidence of tracks leading away from the hammer, but there's no way they'd last in this kind of weather, anyway. No one could survive outside without shelter. Either the alien is lying dead in a snowdrift somewhere, or...”

Coulson turns and looks in the direction of Echo Base. “Or they're hiding with Dr. Foster and her team.”

Sitwell nods. “That's what I was thinking. Did you sense anything there, Phil?”

Coulson shakes his head. “I had to keep my shield up the whole time, as the impressions left at the base are too powerful. I knew the team was hiding something, but not what.”

Sitwell nods back at the screen. “Well, I wouldn't have guessed this.”

“No,” Coulson agrees. He straightens his shoulders. “Divide the security team into shifts. We'll have to keep watch on the artifact at all times. I suspect that whoever left it here will be coming back to look at it, now that Clint's fixed the snowspeeders.”

They organize the base together. Clint works with security while Sitwell makes sure the scientists remember to scan for gamma rays. Coulson spends his time staring at the meteor, as if by looking at it, he can force it to give up its secrets.

Clint walks up to him once the arrangements are in place. The base has been constructed around the artifact, so Clint can see it from up close, now. It still looks like a hammer to him. 

“Agent Hartley has secured the perimeter,” he tells Coulson, before nodding at the hammer. “Have you tried scanning it, sir?”

“You mean with the Force?” Coulson asks, his eyes never leaving the artifact. “Yes. It's powerful, but that's all I can feel. I can't get more than surface impressions.” He shakes his head. “It's as if the artifact itself can _sense_ that I'm here, and doesn’t want me to learn more about it. I want to communicate with it, but,” he sounds frustrated, “it's denying me, somehow.”

“Is it... alive?” Clint asks, surprised. “Conscious?”

“I think so,” Coulson agrees, speaking slowly. Clint doesn't like how unsettled he sounds. “I think it's alive, and aware, in a completely alien way. It's so... _powerful_... in the Force, Clint. Seeped in it. I don't understand what it is or where it comes from. It would frighten me, if it weren't so patently uninterested in us.”

“What is it interested in?”

“In the one that it's waiting for,” Coulson says quietly. “In the one who is worthy.”

They stare at the hammer a few minutes, but then Clint shakes his head and goes back to work. He coordinates with Hartley and Sitwell and then valiantly tries to get a few hours sleep. 

He sleeps well for a time, but is woken up in the middle of the night by alarms blaring. Clint throws himself out of bed and runs to the control center at the middle of the base. The place is swarming with activity. Clint glances at the security display and sees that someone has breached the perimeter. He activates his bow and ducks out of the nearest exit, making for the crane lift he'd asked Hartley to set up for just this situation. 

“Barton,” Phil says into his comm. “Talk to me.”

It's dark and freezing outside the safety of the temporary base, and a blizzard is blowing in. Clint can still see a large figure trudging through the snow. It looks like a humanoid man, long blonde hair whipping around its head in the wind. The man is wearing a parka from Echo Base, confirming that's where he's been hiding.

Clint watches as the man fights his way through their security team, impressed. “You want me to slow him down, sir?” he asks, nocking an arrow to the string as the big guy throws Mack aside. “Or are you sending in more guys for him to beat up?”

Coulson says nothing as the figure tosses its head and starts forward again. It's walking towards where the hammer sits, perched on its immobile mound of snow.

“You better call it, sir,” Clint goes on, tracking the figure. He's curious to see what might happen next. “Cause I'm starting to root for this guy.”

“Wait,” Coulson tells him. Clint watches the man make his way into the temporary base, crossing the sealed area to the hammer still sticking up from the snow. 

High above the blowing snow, Clint can get a better look at the man’s face. He looks human, only he's built on a scale twice that of any human Clint's ever known.

The man grins when he sees the hammer, a huge, wide, wild smile. Clint waits with his arrow drawn as the figure tightens his grip on the hammer and pulls. Clint's not sure what the man's expecting, but whatever it is, it doesn't happen. The hammer doesn't move, it doesn't even budge. It just sits there, waiting.

Obviously, this guy, whoever this guy is, is not the one who's worthy.

The man frowns, pulls again, and when nothing happens once more, he falls to his knees. He screams, a long, drawn out howl that seems to shake the very surface of the planet itself. Clint shivers. He doesn't relax the tension on his bow, though, not even when the giant bows his head, the fight leaving him all at once. 

“Okay,” Coulson says, and security moves in. Clint watches until the giant is taken away, then climbs down from his perch. He ducks back inside and Coulson is waiting for him with a hot cup of coffee.

“Thanks,” Clint says, gratefully taking the drink. It burns on the way down, but feels wonderful. “What do you think he is?”

Coulson shakes his head. “I have no idea.”

The interrogation doesn't go well. Coulson tries to talk to the guy, to find out who he is and where he comes from, but the man doesn't say anything. He won't answer any of Coulson's questions. He barely even acknowledges that someone is speaking to him. He looks broken – defeated. Clint watches with Sitwell from behind the one-way glass.

Clint's keeps staring even after Coulson exits the room and comes to stand beside him. Coulson and Sitwell converse in low voices while Clint watches the big guy.

“He must be some kind of mercenary,” Coulson says. 

Sitwell shakes his head. “I can't get a read on him, though. Not even surface impressions.”

Coulson frowns. “I can't either, but – ” He breaks off. 

Clint is listening to them, but he's watching the alien. He sees the way he shudders all over, like he's been stung. Clint frowns and leans closer to the one-way glass, but then there's the _thunk_ of a body falling beside him.

Clint looks over and starts. Coulson's hit the floor, and he looks unconscious. Sitwell is holding his head and shaking. Various other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, all of whom are Force-sensitive, are moaning and groaning at their stations. Clint scrambles down to Coulson, reaching over to check his pulse. It's beating wildly, and his eyes are darting side-to-side under his closed lids. 

“Coulson? Coulson?!” Clint shakes him, but it doesn't seem to help. Whatever this is, it's not the same as what happened at Echo Base. “Come on, Phil, talk to me.” 

He doesn't move, and Sitwell is swaying on his feet, his eyes open and staring. It's obvious that Clint can't do anything for Coulson, so he goes to Sitwell's side. “What is it?” he asks, guiding the senior agent to sit on the floor. “Jasper? What's happening?”

Inside the containment room, the big guy is speaking. He's obviously talking to someone, someone Clint can't see. He meets the eyes of the other non-Force-sensitive S.H.I.E.L.D. agents in the room, who all look as confused as he is. 

Another wave seems to pass through the affected agents, most of whom are now on the floor. They all shake and their teeth start to chatter. Clint can feel the temperature drop by several degrees.

“Get some warm blankets!” he orders, sending the unaffected agents scurrying. He drops back to his knees beside Coulson and Sitwell. They're both now as cold as ice. “Grab everyone affected and huddle them together for warmth. Robinson, go outside and check on Hartley, she was on duty on the perimeter.”

It takes too long for whatever is happening to pass. One by one, the affected agents start to wake up, several crying silently as their eyes blink open. Sitwell and other agents with lesser Force abilities are the first to recover. Coulson and Hartley take the longest. They're still shaking and shivering but their eyes remain clenched shut.

Clint sits Sitwell up and gives him a cup of hot chocolate. Everyone affected has been bundled in warm blankets, and Robinson is handing out warm drinks. Jasper looks horrible, pale and drawn, and Clint sits with him while Coulson lays unconscious at their feet. Clint has Coulson's feet in his lap and is rubbing then, trying to keep the senior agent warm.

“What happened, Jasper? What was that?”

“It was the Dark Side,” Sitwell explains, trembling again at the memory. “So much of it, Clint, and so strong. It hit us without warning - a rolling tide of Dark energy. It swamped us, pulled us under. I could feel everyone screaming in my mind, begging. I saw things, Clint.” His eyes are wide, staring. “Terrible things.”

“What kind of things?”

“Death, destruction. The universe overrun with hatred.” Sitwell blinks and shakes his head. “I saw what will happen if the Dark Side wins, if HYDRA takes over and the Galactic Alliance fails.” He shivers. “It was terrible.”

Clint swallows and looks down at Coulson. If Jasper saw something that horrible, he doesn't want to think about what Coulson could be seeing now.

It takes another half an hour, but finally Coulson begins to stir. By then, the majority of the other Force-sensitives have recovered and are sitting together in a circle.

Hartley takes a little longer, but then she's arguably one of the strongest Force-sensitives they have in S.H.I.E.L.D., even stronger than Coulson. She insists on solo duty most of the time for a reason Clint doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know how Coulson convinced her to come on this op, but he hopes it hasn’t driven her entirely away from joint operations. 

Clint helps Coulson sit up, but he's shaking so hard he's vibrating. Sitwell stays with Hartley. She’s blinking her eyes, just beginning to wake, and Clint signals for more hot chocolate. Neither Coulson or Hartley say anything, but Clint can slowly feel Coulson starting to warm.

Still wordless, Coulson reaches out and clasps Hartley's hand. She, in turn, reaches out and takes Sitwell's. The Force-sensitives all join hands, creating a scattered circle on the floor. 

Clint hovers, unsure of how to help, but Coulson's other hand comes up, waiting for his. Clint takes it immediately. He holds his hand out for the agent next to him, a woman named Palamas, who in turn takes the hand of the woman beside her.

They all sit together for a few minutes, Force-sensitives and non-Force-sensitives alike, wordlessly offering comfort. After that, Coulson gives him a squeeze and then lets go. Clint nods at him, then gets up to check their security. The computer has been running in the background, but virtually the entire base has been taken out. 

Fortunately, nothing else seems to have happened. Their alien is still sitting in the interrogation room, staring at the wall, looking nearly catatonic, but that isn't much different from how he looked before. 

When he's sure they aren't in immediate danger, Clint returns to the group. He crouches next to Coulson again.

“I saw my father,” Leo is saying. He's a Force-sensitive from the science team. “He was screaming. There were burns on his face and hands, just like there were after the accident last year, but this time the bacta treatments weren't working. He was in so much pain.”

The group nods, everyone looking pale.

“I saw the _Helicarrier Gold_ ,” Coulson says softly. “It was on fire. I knew that everyone I cared about was on board.” He glances for a moment at Clint, then looks away again. “It exploded. Everyone was dead.” 

The group is silent for a moment. 

“Sir,” Simmons, another one of the scientists, says. She's a non-sensitive, Clint remembers. “Was this a vision of the future? Are these things that are going to happen?”

Clint looks to Coulson. He has to admit that he wants to hear the answer as well.

“No, Agent Simmons,” Coulson tells her gently. “This was a warning, a glimpse of what _could_ happen if HYDRA succeeds. It does not mean that they will. We must use the trauma of these nightmares to spur ourselves forward – we _cannot_ let them win.”

Around the circle, everyone nods. Finally, in twos and threes, they stand to return to their stations.

“How are you _really_ feeling, sir?” Clint asks Coulson, once everyone has left.

“Really?” Coulson asks, sounding more exhausted than Clint’s ever heard. “I want to curl up into a ball and sleep for a week, preferably somewhere warm. I know that goes for everyone on base, however, and not only those affected. I'll be fine.”

“Okay,” Clint says, unsure. “If you need anything, though, anything at all...”

Coulson hesitates. 

“Anything,” Clint stresses, holding his ground.

Coulson swallows. “Could you,” he glances around, but they're alone by the interview room. “Could you maybe hold me? Just for a moment.”

He already looks like he regrets asking, so Clint steps in close before he can take back his words. “Of course,” he says, and gathers Coulson – Phil – into a hug. 

There are layers of clothing between them, but Clint can still feel the heat of Phil’s body, pressing close. Phil's tense, so Clint rubs his shoulders, like he had when Coulson was still warming up. He bends forward and presses his cheek against Phil's own, and that's what finally seems to work. 

Phil relaxes in one huge exhale, the tension running out of his body in a long, exhausted wave. He sags against Clint, gripping his shoulders, and Clint lets him. 

“It's okay,” he murmurs into Phil's ear. “It's okay. It wasn't real. We're all okay.”

Phil shudders. His arms come up to cling to Clint's back, and pull him in tight. “It was so real...”

“I know,” Clint tells him, because it must have been, to shake Phil this badly, “but it's not real, because I'm here. I'm here, and Natasha's safe, and the Director’s safe, and Sitwell’s fine, and Hill’s a tough son-of-a-bitch so obviously she's okay, and...”

Phil hiccups a laugh. “I'll tell her you said that.”

“I'm counting on it,” Clint tells him, smiling, his cheek still pressed again Phil’s. 

“Thank you,” Phil says. He swallows. “I just... thank you.”

“Any time,” Clint reiterates. He waits until Phil loosens his hold to do the same. “How do you feel?”

“Better,” Phil admits. He straightens, pulling the mask of 'Agent Coulson' back over his face. For the first time, Clint realizes that the mask is separate from the man. It's so easy to see, now, when he knows where to look. 

“Let's go make sure our intruder is okay,” Coulson says.

He is. The alien hasn't changed, he hasn't even moved from his chair. Clint goes back to helping security. It's one big, gaping hole, and the footage from the past several hours has to be reviewed. He's in the middle of that when Erik Selvig shows up.

“His name is Donald,” Selvig is saying when Clint finds him trying to convince Sitwell to let him take the alien back to Echo Base. “He's a physicist, a brilliant man. He gets confused sometimes, that's all.”

“There is a Donald Blake registered with your expedition,” Sitwell agrees, thumbing through the paperwork Selvig has provided. He hands a security pass to Clint, who runs it under the base's scanners. _Falsified Data_ comes up on the screen.

Sitwell glances over at it, then back to Selvig. His face gives nothing away. “There was a report that he left approximately six months ago, however.”

“Oh, well, he came back,” Selvig lies, and not well. “He missed Jane, you see. They always got along quite well. Er. It's been hard for him, coming and going all the time.”

“Uh huh,” Sitwell says. He opens his mouth, but Coulson beats him to it.

“Of course you can take him,” the senior agent says, walking into the room. Clint looks over at him as he continues, “I assured you that all members of your expedition would be granted access to the meteor, and I meant it. Please call first next time, though. A heads up would be appreciated.”

“Of course,” Selvig promises, fidgeting. He waits while Coulson directs Ward to retrieve the alien. The man – who is definitely not a Donald – smiles when he sees Selvig, but it's a sad and tired expression.

Clint watches them leave, then turns to Sitwell. Sharing a look, they glance at Coulson.

“I want to know what happened back there,” Coulson explains. “The alien is the key. He won't talk to us, but maybe he will talk to them. Follow them, Clint. Learn what happened here today. I want to know who this man is and where he comes from.”

Clint nods. He takes the snowspeeder he fixed yesterday and follows the scientists stealthily back to Echo Base. Selvig and the alien “Donald” head to the mess hall, grabbing dusty glass bottles from the ancient shelves as they go, and Clint ducks out for a moment to find Darcy. He needs to confirm for himself that she's okay. 

She is. Clint finds her tinkering with the snowspeeder Selvig had used to pick up Donald in the hangar bay, and she doesn't look shaky or disturbed like the Force-sensitives at the S.H.I.E.L.D. base. Clint's glad that whatever happened there didn't spread to here. 

Clint sneaks back to the mess hall to find Selvig and the big alien in the process of getting drunk. He listens from the rafters as they talk about old myths and forgotten legends.

“My family told stories,” Selvig says, a glass of Corellian whiskey sloshing in his hand, “of a galaxy far, far away, where gods walk as men.”

“Not gods,” the alien tells him, sounding considerably less drunk, “but members of a race much different from your own. To you, the Force is an energy field,” he explains, “a wavelength that can be studied. I tell you, it is so much more than that. It is alive, constant and yet ever-changing. It is neither Light nor Dark, nor High or Low, but Order and Chaos, Freedom and Constraint, Possibility and Impossibility. It is infinitely complex and yet absurdly simple.”

He shakes his head. “I have been taught this my entire life, but did not understand it until I came here. Standing here, on this plane, speaking with you and Jane, I finally realize the width and breadth of the Force, the dual nature that is not two but one. I understand it in a way that I did not before.”

Selvig nods drunkenly, pouring more whiskey into his glass. Clint records the conversation for Coulson. He doesn't get it, doesn't understand it, but he thinks he _almost_ might, maybe. 

Clint's an assassin, not a philosopher. Still, he's sure this is something Coulson would like to hear. 

The two men stumble to bed hours later, Selvig needing to be carried by the bigger man. Clint follows them, but he can't leave. Dr. Foster is watching the monitors, and there's no way for him to fly back to the temporary base without getting caught. He rests as much as he can, catching a few hours of sleep, and tries to meditate.

It doesn't work. He's not a Jedi.

In the morning, Donald wakes up, and Dr. Foster is distracted. Clint takes the snowspeeder from where he stashed it and flies back to the impact crater. He's halfway there when a shockwave knocks him from the air.

“Shit!” Clint shouts, wrestling with the controls. He nose-dives into the snow but manages to slow his speed enough that he doesn't vaporize on impact. The crash dazes him, but he flails until he hits the exit controls and falls out of the canopy. The speeder is lost – the whole front end has crumbled. Clint stumbles from the wreckage. 

Where the hell had that shock wave come from? 

“Coulson,” Clint tries, digging at his ear comm. “S.H.I.E.L.D. base, this is Agent Barton, please respond.”

Nothing. Whatever it was - whatever just happened - was strong enough to fry the sat-comm in orbit. Clint looks in the direction of the temporary base. He can't see it yet, but he knows he wasn't far when his snowspeeder went down. He starts walking.

He's almost halfway back by the time he sees it, a huge robot walking across the snow. It looks almost like an AT-AT standing up on two legs. It's a massive contraption that towers above the drifts. Clint's seen pictures of the Imperial walkers in Coulson's office, but he's never appreciated how huge they must have looked from the ground, before now.

There's no way it's actually Imperial tech, though, and Clint knows it's not one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s. He starts running in the direction of the crater. Whatever this thing is, it must be alien. 

Clint's getting closer when the alien robot opens some kind of port and starts rumbling. He doesn't understand what's happening until a beam of energy shoots out, blasting the air in front of it and sending another shockwave over the tundra, which knocks Clint to his knees in the snow. He scrambles back to his feet. He knows the temporary base is just in front of him. The robot must be attacking the S.H.I.E.L.D. team.

_Coulson_ , Clint thinks, and runs.

He's not quite close enough to do anything, still out of bow range, when another snowspeeder arrives. It blurs past Clint and disappears over a short hill. Clint runs up the slope. The snowspeeder is landing near the robot and people are tumbling out. Clint can't see faces, but he recognizes the alien Donald's long, blond hair. He’s yelling at the robot, shouting at it that he surrenders. Clint puts on a burst of speed. 

He makes it over the crest of the hill and stops, staring at the scene in horror. There are people scattered all over the snow, sprawled face-down in front of the temporary base. 

Each of them is wearing a S.H.I.E.L.D. issued parka.

_Casualties_ , Clint realizes, and his fear becomes a pit of ice in his gut. 

But the battle isn't over. Other figures are still returning fire, taking what cover they can around the temporary base. It's obvious that their blasters are useless, though. The robot isn't even bothering to fire back anymore.

It seems distracted by Donald. Standing around him are other figures, and Clint takes off down the slope, determined to get close enough to be useful. The short person with brown hair must be Dr. Foster, and the other, smaller person with tendrils has to be Darcy. Clint runs as fast as he can, but he can see the alien robot turning towards them. It's rumbling again.

It's going to fire, Clint knows. He's not going to make it in time.

He draws breath to shout, not even sure what he's going to say, but the robot fires before he can. Clint can't look away as the energy streaks towards the scientists. Donald surprises him, though. With a roar that Clint can feel even at this distance, the alien leaps in front of Dr. Foster and takes the blast.

It throws him back to the snow. Smoke rises from his broken body, and Dr. Foster screams. 

Clint activates his bow and keeps running. The alien robot is laughing. Clint's finally close enough to shoot. He launches an arrow at the robot's weapon port, but it bounces off. The robot must be coated in some kind of armour. 

He runs past several bodies scattered in the snow. Clint wants to stop and check every one, but he can't. He runs instead to Darcy and Dr. Foster, putting himself in front of them like a human shield.

“Get out of here!” he shouts, hoping Darcy takes Foster and runs. “Go! I'll try to buy you time!”

Clint doesn't know what he can do. The alien Donald is lying dead at Foster's feet. Clint feels a pang for him and his noble sacrifice, but he understands why he took the blast. Behind him, Darcy lets loose a barrage of Force-lightning. She's going to stay and fight, Clint realizes, and he understands that, too. It's useless, though. The robot raises a hand and the energy dissipates against its palm. It laughs again.

Clint tenses and readies another arrow. He looks for eye sockets, for joints, for any weak spot he can exploit. There's nothing.

Then, miraculously, there's a stirring in the snow. Clint looks down and watches in disbelief as the alien Donald blinks and stands up. He looks... different. His clothes have transformed, and the hand-me-down outfit he was wearing is now a strange type of armour with a brilliant red cape. The alien looks suddenly majestic – proud. There's a shift in the air, a kind of charged sensation that even Clint can feel.

There's a sound like a bell.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. base rattles. Clint looks over to see the hammer that had been resting on its immobile mound suddenly burst through the temporary ceiling. It rises into the air before turning, flying across the distance between the base and the proud blond now standing in the snow. With a mighty _crack_ the hammer lands in the alien's raised palm, the joining of hammer and man sending another shockwave through the tundra.

The alien robot pauses, startled. Clint hears a hiss of surprise. Around him, agents start to shake themselves and rise from the snow. Clint can see Coulson and Sitwell, Hartley and others – all the Force-sensitive agents on the expedition. They must have been unconscious, laid out by the same Dark Side energy they'd experienced yesterday. Clint feels a sharp pang of relief. They aren't dead after all.

Behind him, Darcy shudders. Clint looks back at her in concern. She's raising her arms to the sky, though, something like ecstasy on her face. “The power...!”

Clint stares at her. “What is it?” He asks. “Is it the Dark Side?”

Darcy shakes her head. “No. It _was_ , before we got here, but this –” she laughs. Lightning leaps between her lifted hands. “This is different. This is honour and acceptance, devotion and love. This is self-sacrifice and duty. This is everything that is good and strong in the galaxy, and it is so, _so_ much more powerful than hate and despair.”

Clint doesn't know what to say to that. He looks across the snow to Coulson, who is standing on his own two feet, his legs braced and strong, something fierce and protective in his eyes. 

“Brother,” the blonde alien shouts, turning to face the robot. He's holding the hammer in one hand. “These people are innocent. If you would face me, do so in Asgard, where no harm can come to them.”

There is a pause, and then the robot attacks. Donald does not hesitate, leaping to meet it in the air. He and the hammer jump together, and for a moment they appear to fly. They meet the robot mid-jump, and then they are through it and on the other side. There's a giant hole in the center of the robot, and the alien machine collapses in the snow.

Everything pauses. Clint looks around to see three other unfamiliar people standing behind the robot, all dressed like Donald. They aren't as large as him, but they are clearly from the same world. Their strange armour is majestic, gleaming, but they each have wild smiles across their faces.

They embrace Donald loudly, clapping him on the back. “Well done, Thor, son of Odin!” one of them shouts. 

Clint lifts his eyebrows and turns to look around. Coulson finds his eyes, and smiles. 

“Thor, you say,” Coulson says, walking towards the alien. 

Thor grins, a sheepish look on his face, and begins to explain. Clint leaves Coulson to figure out what's going on and checks on Darcy. She's fine, so he turns to Sitwell and the other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. Everyone looks dazed, but alive.

Thor, it seems, is an alien from a distant galaxy. His brother sent the robot, which he calls the Destroyer, to kill him. 

“I was banished,” Thor explains regretfully, “to learn mortal lessons once more. Now that Mjolnir has accepted me again, I have regained my former strength. Not,” he says, turning to Dr. Foster and raising her hand to kiss it, “that I intend to forget all that I have learned.”

Dr. Foster blushes but doesn't remove her hand. She looks star-struck, which is pretty funny for an astrophysicist.

Thor confers with his comrades for a moment, and together they decide he will pursue his brother, who is called Loki, back to Asgard, which Clint assumes is the galaxy they come from. 

“Know this, Son of Coul,” Thor says to Coulson. “You and I fight on the same side. What you did here today to protect the Lady Jane and her friends will not be forgotten.”

“We didn't do very much,” Coulson counters, glancing around. The damage the Destroyer did is significant.

“Yet you tried,” Thor argues, “and for that, I leave you with this: Know that the hero you seek lies sleeping, but not yet dead. You will find him shrouded in carbon, watched over by the Tesseract, hidden in the Dagobah system.”

Coulson looks shocked. Clint stares at him in concern. What hero? Could he mean...?

“I... thank you, Thor,” Coulson says, finally. “This is information beyond price.”

Thor nods regally. “Do not delay, Son of Coul. The enemy searches for him, also, convinced that the Tesseract he claimed holds the answer to all they desire. They are not wrong. Find the Soldier, free the Tesseract, and I will return. Your people are not yet ready for such power.”

Coulson's shoulders stiffen, but he nods. “I understand.”

“You do not,” Thor says, shaking his head, “but you will. I would aid you, but if I do not stop my brother now, he will lay waste to your world and claim such power for himself. Guard the Tesseract until I return.”

Clint doesn't like the sound of that, but before he can say anything there's a swirl of energy and Thor and his friends are gone. 

Coulson immediately begins issuing orders. “Hartley, you're in charge of taking down the base. Contact the _Helicarrier Gold_ and have them send a second ship. Sitwell, I want you to coordinate with our science team and Doctors Foster and Selvig. Find out who's staying, who's leaving, and get them packed up. Ms. Lewis,” he starts, looking around to meet her eyes, “we have a lot to discuss, but unfortunately, now is not the time. You are welcome to remain with your friends or accompany my agents back to S.H.I.E.L.D. The choice is yours.”

She nods, looking serious, and Coulson turns to Clint. “Barton, you're with me.”

Clint blinks, but he doesn't hesitate to follow Coulson back to the transport. “Where are we going, sir?”

“To the Dagobah system,” he says, stepping sharply. “We have a war hero to find.”


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awesome thanks to my fabulous beta team, who always makes things better!

“The ship is ready, sir,” Agent Hartley says, exiting the transport. “You’re good to go. The Hoth team will wait here until the _Helicarrier Gold_ or a transport can be dispatched to retrieve us.”

“Thank you, Agent,” Coulson says. “You’re sure the team will be fine?”

Sitwell, coming up behind them, nods. “We’re good, Phil. Just be careful, and,” he hesitates. “Bring him home.”

Coulson meets his eye. “We’ll do our best.”

Sitwell steps back, and Clint follows Coulson onto the transport. He stows their bags in the cargo area and makes his way to the forward section.

“Do you really think Steve Rogers crashed _The Howling Commando_ on Dagobah, sir?” he asks, sitting in the pilot’s seat and running his fingers over the flight controls.

“It’s close to Sluis Van,” Coulson admits, taking up position behind him. “There isn't much there. It’s too far away from the Deep Core to be of much interest to settlers, and there aren’t many mineral deposits on the planet. We've been operating under the assumption that Rogers was attempting to pilot the _Commando_ back to Coruscant, but I hadn't realized there was the possibility of an artifact or a weapon on board. Whatever this Tesseract is, it sounds as if it’s incredibly powerful. Perhaps Rogers wanted to make sure it would never be found.”

“But could he still be alive, sir?” Clint asks, triggering the pre-flight sequence. “Really? Carbonite isn't intended for such long-term use.”

Coulson shakes his head. “I don't know. Thor seems to think he is, and at the moment I think we should assume that a Force-being from another galaxy knows more about the situation than we do.”

Clint steadies himself as the transport rumbles, engines whining as the ship begins to lift into the air. “Is that what Thor is? A Force-being?”

Coulson hesitates. “I don't know,” he admits. “The moment he held that hammer - I've never felt anything like it. The closest I can describe is what happened at the S.H.I.E.L.D. base, only the opposite. Where before it was a tidal wave of Dark energy, swamping us under and burying us in fears of a galaxy where evil reigned, this was a healthy energy – fierce and strong. It picked me up instead of pulling me down.”

Clint nods. The ship rises until they break atmo - the white sky of Hoth giving way to the star-filled vastness of space. Clint keys on the hyperdrive engines and activates the sublight thrusters, breaking orbit and taking them away from the planet’s gravity well. “Darcy said something similar. She said it was stronger than the Dark Side of the Force.”

“She's right,” Coulson says with a faint smile. “Love will always be stronger than hate. It's just harder, sometimes.”

Clint smiles back, but turns away before he can meet Coulson's eyes, punching the coordinates into the hyperdrive computer. Coulson is right. Love can be hard. The hardest thing. But maybe it's worth it, sometimes.

Maybe.

Clint sneaks a peek at Coulson as the computer crunches their route. He remembers the terror he’d felt when he'd thought Coulson was down, the desperate urge to do something - _anything_ \- to help. It’d scared him, just as the feeling of Coulson - of _Phil_ \- in his arms had been so right. 

Clint bites his bottom lip. This thing he feels for Coulson is stronger than he thought.

He doesn’t know what to do about that. What _should_ he do? Should he say something? Do something? Pull Coulson into his arms and kiss him?

Clint shudders and turns back to his controls, shielding fiercely. 

Not yet. Whatever this is, he doesn’t understand it. It scares him. He won’t do anything about it yet. 

But maybe soon. 

The computer dings. “The route is ready, sir,” Clint says, focusing again on his controls. “Should I take us out?”

Coulson leans forward. “Engage the hyperdrive, Agent. Let’s see what we find.”

Clint nods and pulls down on the lever. Around them, the stars twist and lengthen, the small transport jumping forward as they launch themselves into hyperspace.

The trip isn’t a long one. Clint busies himself repacking their equipment, stashing the cold weather gear and making sure his quiver supply is full. He thinks about everything except Coulson, and only retakes his seat at the helm when the computer pings to let them know they’ve reached the Dagobah System.

Clint settles his hands on the controls. The planet is covered in dark green and swathed in clouds. There’s no blue, no deep oceans. Clint guides them into the upper atmosphere. 

“What do you think?” he asks, glancing over the topographical map. “Can you see any evidence of a landing site?”

Coulson shakes his head. “Dagobah is a swamp world. The vegetation is too thick to see through, and it’ll probably obscure any useful readings. Not to mention that, after a thousand years, there most likely won't be any evidence left to find. We'll have to try – ”

He's cut off by a whine from the engines. Clint stares at the controls. Everything has suddenly gone dark. He flips a switch and checks the power readings, but it's no use. Everything is dead.

Clint has a moment to wonder what the hell just happened before the ship starts to list. The planet fills the viewport. “We're going down!”

“Head to starboard,” Coulson tells him, his voice tight. He presses at his topographical screen, but it's dark. He closes his eyes instead, and Clint knows he's reading the map from memory with the aid of the Force. “There's a rough clearing up ahead on a high-land ridge.”

Clint grits his teeth but tries to do as Coulson says. The transport isn't designed to maneuver without thrusters and the pedal is stiff under manual control. It's a struggle to keep the nose up. Clint fights with the controls as gravity drags them down. The ship lists, and they fall into a dense fog. Clint can't see a damn thing.

“Starboard, go starboard,” Coulson urges. 

“I'm _trying_ ,” Clint growls.

“Here,” Coulson says, moving to stand behind Clint. Clint sucks in a breath as Coulson's hands come down to cover his own. “This way,” Coulson breathes, his voice right beside Clint's ear.

He's deep in the Force, sensing the ground rather than seeing it. Clint shudders and relaxes his grip on the controls, letting Coulson guide his hands. His back prickles where Coulson rests against it. They steer to starboard. 

“Coulson…” Clint warns, as a giant tree materializes out of the fog.

“I got it,” Coulson answers, his voice sounding very far away. His fingers twitch against Clint’s, and their course adjusts. They crash through dense green leaves but avoid the trunk.

Clint lets out a breath and gives up the last of his control. Coulson’s got this. Instead, Clint focuses his attention on the altitude adjustor under his feet, doing his best to keep them level. He brings their nose up, but then has to fight with the ship when it jumps. 

“Sorry,” Coulson gasps as the ship rocks again. Vegetation slaps against the hall. “The jungle is too thick, I can’t - ”

“Just get us down in one piece,” Clint tells him grimly. “I’ll do the rest.”

The fog is starting to thin. Below it, Clint can see the ground coming up fast. Coulson steers them around massive trees, avoiding root system as big as their forward section. Clint focuses on their nose. They’re still going to fast. 

“Hold on,” Clint says, bracing himself. He lets up on the controls, increasing their drag. The ship shudders and begins to whine. “Hold together,” Clint murmurs, adjusting their descent. “Come on, baby, hold together.”

The ship rocks. Coulson throws them once more to port, around a huge tree that looms suddenly in front of them, and then the ground is there, right there on their nose. Clint grabs the console with one hand and Coulson with the other. “Brace for impact!” 

The ship hits. It bounces - once, twice - and then stays down. They skid for a second, crashing through trees and tangled vines, before the drag is too much and they finally stop. 

Clint coughs, lifting his head from the controls. It looks like they’ve made it down more or less in one piece. 

“Are you alright?” Coulson asks, struggling up from his knees. He’d fallen with the second bounce.

Clint touches his scalp. There's a bump on his forehead, but he thinks that's the worst of his injuries. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I think so.” He looks around. “Where are we?”

Coulson squints through the viewport. “A swamp, I think. Come on, let's grab our things and go have a look.”

They've definitely landed in a swamp. Clint can smell the methane as soon as the hatch lifts. “Oh, gross,” he says, making a face. He squints through the fog. “That must be the ridge you were aiming us towards, wasn’t it, sir?” 

Coulson peers in the direction Clint’s pointing. “I think so.” 

“The smell might kill us before we make it that far.”

Coulson smiles. “Take a few deep breaths, you'll get used to it soon enough.” He glances around. “The ship seems stable, which is good because I don't think we’ll be able to move it anytime soon.”

“Let me take a look at the engines,” Clint says. “I want to know what happened. I could swear that nothing hit us. They just cut out.”

Phil nods and gathers equipment while Clint makes his way to the back. The engines look normal, but no matter what Clint tries, they refuse to start. 

“I don't understand,” he says with a glare. “It's like the electrical systems are shot, as if we were hit with an ion cannon.” He turns back to face Coulson. “Could there have been a ship under cloak?”

Coulson hefts his pack and shakes his head. “We hit an energy field. I felt it as soon as we pitched forward. It surrounds the entire planet - even now, I can feel it. It’s like a ghost against my mind.”

Clint frowns. “Is it the Tesseract?”

Coulson hesitates. “I think so.”

Clint doesn’t like how uncertain he sounds. “Do you know where it's coming from?”

Coulson shakes his head, slowly. “I don't – it's hard to pin down. It's _massive_. I can feel a presence to the southeast, but I think that's something else.”

“What?”

“I... don't know.”

Clint stares at him, but that's apparently all Coulson's going to give him. “Well, there's nothing I can do for the engines from here,” Clint says. “We can wait for rescue or we can start walking.”

“I think we should start walking,” Coulson tells him, handing him a pack. “We know the _Commando_ is here somewhere, and that's our first priority. Agent Sitwell will notify S.H.I.E.L.D. of Thor's intel and our trip to Dagobah – the _Helicarrier Gold_ will be in orbit shortly. I'd like to have Rogers’ – and the Tesseract's – location by that time. The last thing we want is a space battle with HYDRA forces.”

“You think we'd lose?” Clint asks, surprised. 

“Very likely, depending on what support they can mobilize. The _Helicarrier Gold_ is a large ship, but it's the only one we have. S.H.I.E.L.D. is primarily an intelligence and espionage agency, remember, not a military force. The Director will be in contact with the Galactic Alliance, but there's no way they could arrive in time to support us. Our job is to locate the _Commando_ and get its cargo off-planet.” He turns in a circle, glancing around the swamp they've landed in. “I think we should head towards the southeast. I'm not certain that's where the _Commando_ is located, but there’s _something_ there. It's the only lead we have.”

“Okay,” Clint agrees. “There's a camo net in the cargo hold. I suggest we hide the ship before heading out. Can you get any sense about the distance to our target?”

Coulson tries, but after a minute of silence, shakes his head. “No. I'm sorry, Clint, but the sensation is indistinct at best.”

“That's okay,” Clint tells him, “at least you can sense _something_. I'm feeling pretty useless here.”

“Well, we can't have that,” Coulson tells him with a smile. “Why don't you unpack your bow and take the lead? You can shoot for our supper if you see anything edible jump out at us.”

Clint snorts. “How do you feel about swamp dragon, sir?”

“Delicious,” Coulson deadpans. “Let's go.”

 

*

 

They camouflage the ship and secure their gear, and then set off towards the southeast. They walk for several hours and Clint watches the sky, trying to gauge how long they have until darkness falls. Coulson follows along behind him, eyes half-shut, trying to concentrate on the nebulous presence he can feel.

“There are several layers,” he explains to Clint, when they stop for a ration bar in the shelter of a giant fern. “I can always feel the energy field - it’s hazy, but there, like a shimmering bubble of Force power. Beneath that is a... a warm spot, I guess you could say. Something different and distinct.”

“A warm spot?”

Coulson nods. “Yes. I've felt its likeness before,” he says, hesitating slightly. “On Yavin Four.”

“Ah ha!” Clint exclaims. “I knew it! You _are_ a Jedi.”

“Not exactly,” Coulson temporizes. “I did study with them for a time, but I never took orders.”

“They let you keep a lightsaber, though.” Clint points out. “That's got to mean something.”

“Less than you might think,” Coulson tells him wryly. “The lightsaber is mine because I built it, and they couldn't very well take it back.” He waves a hand, indicating the holster he wears at his lower back. “I'm not allowed to wear it openly unless I’m in battle.”

“Why not?”

Coulson shrugs. “Because being a Jedi is more than having a certain set of Force abilities. It confers a level of responsibility, and requires the adherence to a certain kind of moral code. I refused to swear allegiance to that code.”

Clint makes a face. “You mean that whole _There is no emotion_ bullshit?”

Coulson laughs. “Partially. The Jedi Council has wavered on that issue over the last thousand years. The Old Republic believed in it faithfully, but Luke Skywalker disagreed.” 

“What do you believe, sir?”

Coulson looks down, playing with the wrapper of his ration bar. “I believe that the Force is a neutral party, that thinking beings are neither good nor evil. Emotional connections can be a grounding influence, but they can also be dangerous. To love someone and then lose them...” he shakes his head. “It has driven more than one person insane. And a mad Jedi is a dangerous thing.”

“Is that what happens when a Jedi falls to the Dark Side?” Clint asks curiously. 

Coulson shrugs. “Who can say? History tells us that some Fallen Jedi certainly appeared to be insane, while others were completely rational. Emperor Palpatine, for example.”

Clint thinks of the legacy of that evil. “He changed the face of the galaxy, that's for sure.”

“He did,” Coulson agrees. “There have been others in history who have done the same - Revan, Exar Kun. Their intentions leave impressions behind.” He waves a hand towards the southeast. “Like what I am sensing here. There is a warmth left over, like the last smile of a Jedi Master who lived very long ago. Yet there is a coldness as well.”

Clint frowns. “Is that what you felt on Hoth?”

“Similar. It's not as powerful, but then again we're still some distance away.”

Clint looks up to the treeline, trying to guess the position of the sun. “We should keep going, then. We probably have a couple of hours left before dark.”

They walk, and the light gradually dims, filtering down through the cloud layer above. Clint does manage to shoot some lizard-things for dinner, and they stop shortly after. Most of the wood around them is too damp to burn, so Coulson cooks the lizards on the portable heater from his pack while Clint sets up camp.

They take turns watching for predators that night. Clint sleeps well and wakes feeling rested, but Coulson tosses and turns. In the morning, there are shadows under his eyes.

“Are you okay, sir?”

Coulson starts to nod, then seems to remember that he doesn't have to lie to Clint. He sighs. “I didn't sleep well.”

“Nightmares?” 

“More like... restless dreams. We're closer now to the impressions I am sensing, and I can't shield in my sleep. It's like there are two voices in my head, one Light and one Dark, and the power of the Tesseract is overshadowing them both, giving them power.”

“Are you going to be okay if we keep going? We can always wait for S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Coulson hesitates. “I should be okay, but I'll let you know if it gets worse the closer we get.”

Clint doesn’t like it, but there isn’t much he can say. Coulson’s not some macho rookie determined to prove himself. He knows his own abilities. 

Sure enough, the longer they walk, the darker the shadows become under Coulson's eyes. He's got a furrow between his eyebrows now, and it deepens every hour.

Clint keeps waiting for Coulson to say something, but he never does. Finally, Clint calls a stop. “We should go back, sir. This is hurting you. It's not worth losing your mind over.”

But Coulson shakes his head. “We're almost there. We're almost – it's close, Clint. Very close.”

“Then tell me where, and I'll go. It's not affecting me.”

“Just a little longer,” Coulson insists. “When we get there, I'll let you go in alone.”

“Okay,” Clint agrees, watching him sharply, “but talk to me, okay? Tell me when it's getting worse.”

“It's always getting worse,” Coulson admits, stepping past Clint to take the lead. “It's like a, a pressure in my head. It's getting heavier and heavier with every step.”

“Is it still ahead of us?”

“Ahead and down, I think. It's underground.”

Clint nods. They walk a little farther in silence and then emerge from a dense piece of swamp into an area that's fairly clear. Coulson stops abruptly, and Clint almost walks into him.

“Is this it?”

Coulson's silent, looking around, but finally he nods. “Yes. It – ” he shivers. “This is it.”

Clint lays a hand on his arm. Coulson's cold, even with the exercise. “Where, sir? Just tell me where and I'll go.”

“That cave,” Coulson says, nodding. Clint follows his gaze. There is a cave, almost hidden in the root system of a gnarled, twisted tree along the edge of the clearing. 

“There, sir?”

Coulson nods, swallowing. “There. I can sense the ship. It's deep.” His gaze wavers, goes unfocused. “It fell, a very long time ago. It fell from the burning sky and hit the ground. It sank down and down and down, and the trees covered it.”

Clint stares at him, concerned. “Okay,” he says, and Coulson jerks. He blinks and refocuses on Clint. His eyes look bruised, and his face is pale. “Okay, I'll just – I'll make you a fire, sir, and you can sit here and wait for me, alright?”

Coulson just stares at him, saying nothing. Clint bites his lip and hopes the _Helicarrier Gold_ gets here soon. 

It takes about an hour to get things ready. Clint isn't sure how long he's going to be, and he's seriously concerned that an animal will attack and Coulson won't even notice. He pitches the tent and turns the portable heater on. He takes out Coulson's lightsaber and places it in his hand, and then sits him in front of the tent. 

Coulson moves at his touch, but he doesn't acknowledge it. His gaze is distant and unfocused again. 

Clint hesitates before leaving him. “I should get you out of here, I can't – ”

“No.” The word is spoken quietly, as if from a great distance. Coulson’s gaze is still unfocused. “You have to go, Clint. You're the only one who can. Go down. If you come to a crossroads, turn left. Left, left, left – always left. Set a beacon when you find them.” He blinks slowly, looking up at Clint. “It's waiting for you.”

Clint doesn't like the sound of that. “Okay, sir. Just – stay safe while I'm gone.”

Coulson nods. He tightens his grip on the lightsaber. “I will.”

“Okay.” Clint drops his pack at Coulson's feet and activates his bow. He feels calmer with its familiar weight in his hand. “I'll be back as soon as I can.”

Coulson doesn't react to that, his eyes unfocused again. Clint looks once more around the clearing, making sure no predators are nearby. Then he jogs over to the cave, ducks under a hanging vine, and walks in. 

 

*

 

The temperature drops instantly. Clint activates the flashlight he's attached to his hip and keeps going. His eyes are alive in the dim light, scanning every corner, but nothing attacks him. He can hear several creepy crawlers in the distance, but they stay well away from him and his bow.

Clint walks as quickly as he's able, careful not to slip on the wet ground. The cave is very deep. When he comes to a crossroads, he remembers Coulson's instructions and turns left. It happens several more times. The deeper he gets, the more he worries he's somehow missed the entrance. He wants, very badly, to go back to the surface and check on Coulson, but he forces himself to continue.

Coulson can take care of himself. Clint has to believe that, or he’ll go mad.

Finally, after what seems like hours, the ground beneath his boots abruptly changes. It goes from slimy rock to something metallic, and Clint realizes that he's standing on the hull of a ship. He looks around for an entry point, and finds what appears to be an airlock. It's black. Clint can see where muck and mire have grown over the scorch of blaster fire. 

He finds the manual release. It's stiff, but the mechanism turns. The door opens outward, and Clint steps inside.

It's the _Commando_ , it has to be. The corridors are empty, stretching out before and behind him in the dim light. The systems are completely dead, not even flickering when Clint raises a hand to tap at the wall controls. He readjusts the flashlight on his hip, not knowing where to go next. He could turn right or he could turn left. Clint wonders if Coulson could see this far, but then remembers the message about something waiting for him and shivers. 

Left it is. 

The ship isn't huge, but it _is_ long. There are sections where water has seeped in, places where mold has grown. For the most part, though, it's remarkably well preserved, especially considering how long it's been buried. Clint follows the corridors until he comes to what must be the bridge. The door is locked, but once again he finds the manual release. 

Inside, there's evidence of a battle. Scorch marks line the wall, and here and there a console has been slashed apart by what could only be a lightsaber. A faint glow illuminates the space, and Clint realizes this is the only part of the ship with power.

The light is a pale, flickering blue. It's coming from a small box, and Clint hurries over. Pipes and equipment line the walls. The box looks gray, but it could be any colour under the layers of dust. Blue light seeps out from along the edges. 

There's a power cable attached to it. Clint follows it up and over to the wall. It's plugged into the only active piece of equipment, and Clint immediately recognizes it as a carbonite-based suspended animation unit.

“Seven hells,” Clint whispers. He walks up to the unit. The dust is thick, but he wipes it from the glass. He steps in close and peers inside.

A face stares back.

Clint yelps and jumps back. He waits, but the face doesn't move. After a minute, he leans forward again.

The face is grey. It’s a man, youngish, maybe in his early twenties or so. This has to be Steve Rogers. He’s covered in a thin layer of carbonite. Clint has no idea if he’s still alive, but the unit is humming. Its power is being maintained by the glowing box. Clint walks back over and looks at it. Something tells him that touching it would be a very bad idea.

It’s not a Force thing, it’s just common sense. Strangely glowing energy sources are never good things to poke sticks at.

Clint examines the power lines that run from the box to the carbonite-based suspended animation unit. They’re long and look brittle. He’s afraid that if he tries to lift them, they’ll break.

There’s no way he can get all of this to the surface. It’ll just have to wait here until the _Helicarrier Gold_ arrives with a research team.

Clint exhales and turns around. That’s good. He hadn’t been looking forward to introducing himself to Coulson’s childhood hero, anyway. 

From the looks of it, he’s a good-looking guy. He’s probably really nice, too. Clint rolls his eyes at himself as he walks away. What is he – jealous? Stupid. He has nothing to be jealous about.

He’s halfway across the bridge when the ship shudders. Clint staggers. What the hell? 

He looks around. Dust drifts down from the ceiling, visible proof that he hadn’t imagined the lurch. The ship has just shifted. Why? What could possibly be – ?

The deck shudders. Clint pinwheels and reaches out, hands grabbing whatever he can find as the deck falls away from under his feet. Clint manages to snag one of the consoles and holds on for dear life. 

The ship sank in a swamp, he remembers. The ground beneath it must not be stable. Any kind of aggravation, and it’s going to sink further.

But it’s been stable for over a thousand years. The chances of tectonic activity striking now is – 

The deck shudders again. Unexpectedly, it rights itself. The other half of the ship must be sinking now. 

Clint counts backwards in his head. Six seconds between hits. That means that this _isn’t_ tectonic activity.

It’s blaster fire. Blaster fire from a HYDRA ship.

 _Shit_ , he thinks. There must be a ship in orbit, bombarding the area. Maybe it stayed high enough in orbit that it avoided the electronic-neutralizing wave that had downed their small vessel. 

Clint feels a shiver of fear.

Coulson.

He has to get out of here. He has to go help Coulson. Whatever this Tesseract is, it’s not worth more than Coulson’s life. It can wait here, it can be buried forever in the swamp for all Clint cares, he has to – 

Something behind him hisses.

Clint turns around. The deck shudders again. Smoke is rising from one of the carbonite-unit power cables. The shivering and shaking of the deck was too much for the old equipment. It can’t take the stress.

Clint rushes towards the cable but the amount of smoke pouring out of it makes him cough. He waves it aside as the deck lurches again, grabbing onto one of the consoles to keep his balance. He can already see that the damage is impossible to fix. He’s not going to be able to repair this. He’s going to have to – 

A flare of light catches his attention. Clint looks up at the carbonite suspension unit. Its power systems are failing. Even as he watches, a line of dull switches flare before they die. Clint stumbles to the controls but it’s too late. The hibernation unit is designed to defrost its subject matter before total power is lost.

The corner of the hibernation unit starts to glow.

Clint stares at it in horror. No, no, no! This isn’t supposed to be happening! In desperation, he grabs the unit. It’s slippery with new condensation. If he could use the Force to lift or pull, maybe he could grab it and make a break for the tunnels, but he doesn’t. He’s just a useless mercenary with one good trick. If Coulson were here, maybe they could – 

The carbonite continues to glow. There’s a sickly sort of peeling sound. The unit lets out a rattling _clunk_ and the cable abruptly stops spilling smoke. All at once, the power dies. The carbonite dims. Clint wonders if the man inside has died.

Maybe he’s killed Coulson’s childhood hero.

Then, suddenly, the carbonite flares again. Instead of uncurling slowly, the dull grey matter abruptly evaporates away. The man inside is instantly revealed. 

Clint stares. The man – Steve Rogers – takes a shuddering breath.

The floor drops away. Clint yelps and grabs at the corner of the carbonite unit. Dust rains from the ceiling. He has to get them out of here, he has to – 

Something yanks him backwards. Clint fights it for a moment before he recognizes the inescapable hold of a Force Pull. He stops. The ceiling is starting to cave in, but pieces of metal fly away before they can come close to him. Clint is lifted up. Below him the carbonite unit falls away with the disintegrating deck. 

“Who are you?”

Clint looks over. A man is floating there, a Jedi. Like Clint, he’s being suspended in midair, but unlike Clint, he looks perfectly in control. He’s young, blonde, and Clint recognizes the face no longer coated in carbonite.

His breath catches. “Steve Rogers?”

Rogers frowns. “How do you know my name?”

“I’m Clint – Clint Barton. I’m an agent with S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Rogers shakes his head. “S.H.I.E.L.D? What’s S.H.I.E.L.D.? Where’s the Jedi Council? Who's attacking us?”

Clint lifts his hands. “I don’t know where the Council is, probably on Coruscant. You and I are still on Dagobah, on the _Commando_ , the ship you crash-landed here. I don’t know what happened – I assume you got the carbonite suspension unit up and running and plugged into some kind of power source when the ship crashed. We found it, me and a friend of mine, a, a Jedi from S.H.I.E.L.D. We were coming to rescue you.”

Rogers glances up at the falling ceiling. “Some rescue.”

Clint can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, well, we hadn’t planned on HYDRA showing up. Not this quickly.”

“So we’re still on the ship. She’s not going to last much longer. Where’s the Tesseract?”

Clint looks down. “I don’t know. It must have fallen – whoa!” 

He's too tightly caught in Rogers’ Force Pull to do more than flinch backwards when the blue glowing box that had been powering the carbonite unit comes shooting up from the rubble below. Rogers’ eyes are half-closed. He looks as though he’s concentrating.

“I’ve got it. It’s time to get out of here. I can sense that the ship isn’t going to last much longer.” He frowns. “It’s much more frail than I would have thought.”

Clint winces. “Yeah, it’s – you’ve been asleep, Cap. You’ve been asleep for a long time.”

Rogers swallows, but he nods. “Right. Okay, hang onto your hat. I’m going to take us out.”

“Wait,” Clint says hurriedly. “When you do, look for a man on the surface. He’s the friend that I told you about. He’ll be sitting by the cave, if the cave is still there under all the weapons fire, with a lightsaber in his hand. Save him – please? He’s important.”

Rogers nods. “I will.”

With that, he takes them up. Clint tries to follow their progress, but the disorientation is too great. Rogers flies them through the ship as it falls to pieces around them. Clint squints through the debris and finds the airlock. “There!”

He points. Rogers nods and takes them through. They’re in the cave system Clint remembers. “At every crossroads, turn right! That will take us up!”

Clint wants to run on his own two feet but he knows it’d be too slow. The walls of the cave system shake and shudder as the bombardment from the HYDRA ship continues. Rogers races them through the tunnels, his Force ability carrying them along faster than Clint would be able move. Beside him, the blue glowing box bounces along.

Rogers has it in a Force Pull as well. He must not have wanted to leave it behind.

They burst onto the surface. Clint takes in a shocked breath and coughs, wincing at the burn that assaults his throat. The swamp is on fire. Blaster fire rains down from the sky. He can’t see the HYDRA ship in orbit, but he knows it has to be there. 

Clint looks around desperately for Coulson. He _must_ still be here. He can’t be – “There!” he shouts.

There’s a figure lying on the ground. Clint can see the handle of a lightsaber in its hand. It’s Coulson. Clint can only hope that he’s unconscious and not dead.

“I see him!” Rogers shouts. He reaches his hand out towards Coulson and clenches his fist. Coulson rises into the air. Rogers sounds like he’s starting to feel the strain as he says, “This way! I’m going to take us away from the ship!”

Clint can only nod as Rogers lifts them away. The smoke is making it hard to see, but he knows the fire is all around them, burning them out. The ship must be ash beneath their feet. Clint feels a pang of sadness. How long had it survived untouched until now? Over a thousand years, since before the fall of the Old Republic. All that history, gone.

Only Rogers is left now.

The blue glowing box floats along behind them, and Clint shudders. Rogers and the Tesseract. Clint doesn’t know what it’s capable of, but he doesn’t want to find out.

Finally, the smoke starts to thin. Rogers hurries them through the vegetation until he finds a clearing. He lays them down, very gently for a man whose entire attention seems to be on something far away. His eyes are half-closed. 

“The ship in orbit, it’s a design I’ve never encountered before. There’s no way to stop it from here. Do we have access to transportation?”

Clint scrambles to Coulson’s side the instant his feet touch land. Coulson’s breathing, but it’s laboured, and the pinch between his forehead looks like a permanent groove. “Yeah, uh, we came in a ship. That way,” Clint points, not looking away from Coulson. Coulson’s eyes are closed but still darting from side to side, and his breathing is quick. “We’ve got to get him out of here.”

The Tesseract glows. Clint glares at it. “What the hell did you bring that thing for?”

Rogers looks back at the cube. “I couldn’t leave it,” he explains, “HYDRA would have destroyed the entire planet to get to this. It’s dangerous, but I don’t think it can be hidden any more. It’s better that we have it than they do.”

The ground shudders as weapons fire from the ship in orbit strikes it again. Clint scowls. “We won’t have it for long, not at this rate.”

Rogers nods. “We have to get to your ship. Northwest, you said?”

Clint nods. “Yeah - hey!” The startled exclamation leaves his mouth as Rogers pulls him back up and into a Force Pull.

“Sorry,” Rogers apologizes, already on the run. “I used to do this all the time with my squad. It’s faster this way.”

“Well next time warn a guy,” Clint complains. He reaches out and grasps Coulson’s hand. He can’t do much to fix whatever’s knocked him out, but maybe touch will help? 

He remembers their hug on Hoth and swallows. It’d been so nice to be able to _do_ something, to offer comfort. What if it isn’t enough this time? What if Coulson never wakes up?

He’s been a coward, Clint realizes as he squeezes Coulson’s hand. He’d wanted more time to make up his mind - but why? He’s already head over heels for this man. Is that really going to change?

Clint bites his lip and looks down. Coulson’s already almost died twice already - three times, if Clint counts the way his heart had stopped beating when he’d seen Coulson laying face-down in the snow before Thor stopped the Destroyer. How many more chances will he get? 

He shouldn’t risk losing his chance. He should say something - anything - as soon as Coulson wakes up.

“So,” Rogers asks, jumping over a fallen tree, either oblivious to Clint’s inner turmoil or offering a distraction from it. “Bring me up to date - how long have I been out?”

“Well, uh,” Clint stalls. “I really think someone else should be telling you this. Preferably, well, Coulson,” he gestures. “He’s the resident expert here.”

Rogers frowns. “So it’s been a long time, then.”

“Yeah,” Clint admits. “Over a thousand years.” He pauses. He doesn’t know what else to say. 

Rogers exhales. “It’s okay, I just - ” For a moment, he looks so young. “I had a date.”

Clint sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Rogers says, and then shakes his head. “Wait, I can feel something up ahead - is that your ship?”

Clint looks around, trying to orient himself. Rogers is still running, and he’s incredibly fast, but they can’t have gone that far already. “No, that’s - ”

A wave of blaster fire forces them back. “Whoa!” Clint shouts. He does his best to cover Coulson, which isn’t much, since he’s still being carried along in Roger’s Force Pull. “Put me down, I can fight!”

Rogers drops him and Clint goes down to one knee, rolls, and then comes up with his bow. There are five HYDRA officers in a clearing, each wearing the same black uniforms he remembers from Relali’ari. Clint draws three arrows, sights, and shoots. Three of the five go down.

“Wow,” Rogers says, summoning his lightsaber to his hand. He presses a button, but instead of the usual blade extending from the hilt, a flare of silver metal extends out from the barrel. It spins, and suddenly Rogers is holding a round shield approximately as wide as the length of his forearm. He tucks himself behind it, angling the shield so the blaster fire redirects and hits the other officer between the eyes. He drops like sacs of sabacc chips. “You really can fight.”

Clint grins. Rogers may be Coulson’s childhood hero, but right now he’s a soldier, and Clint knows how to impress soldiers. “Damn straight.”

Instead of deactivating his shield, Rogers secures it to his arm. “They came in a ship. I don’t recognize it, but it’s small, about twenty meters in that direction. Can you carry your friend?”

Clint wishes that he could, but this is no time to put Coulson in danger. “Not and move as quickly as you can. You should Pull him.”

“Okay,” Rogers agrees. He extends his arm, and Coulson lifts into the air. Behind them, the Tesseract lifts too. “Let’s go.”

There are two more black-uniformed HYDRA officers in the Lambda class shuttle. Clint and Rogers dispose of one each, and then Clint secures Coulson in the back while Rogers gets the Tesseract squared away. 

Rogers moves to sit down in the pilot’s seat, but Clint pushes him away. “Can you fly this thing?”

“Um, no,” Rogers admits.

“Then sit over there,” Clint instructs, pointing to the gunner's chair. “There are two forward-facing and one rear-mounted double blaster cannon, and ten laser cannons. You can control them all from there. I’m going to get us up and into hyperspace as fast as I can, but you’ll still need to distract them if they see us.”

“Understood,” Rogers says, and sits down in the chair. He ghosts his hands over the controls, familiarizing himself with what’s what, and only asks Clint two clarifying questions during the pre-flight sequence. By the time the shuttle rises into the air, Clint’s fairly convinced that Rogers could at least hit the broadside of the HYDRA cruiser, if it comes to that.

Clint keeps them as low to the ground as possible, always on the look out for the telltale destabilization that will occur if the weird energy surge that knocked him and Coulson out the sky flares again. The fog is thick, but Clint wants to get them on the opposite side of the planet from the HYDRA cruiser before they rise above the atmosphere. Lambda shuttles can take a hit, but nothing this small would be able to suffer the full force of a space cruiser for long. 

Rogers keeps his hands on the controls, but he half-closes his eyes. “Their focus is on the _Commando,_ ” he says. “We should be safe to go soon.”

Clint swallows his reflexive sarcastic remark. Rogers is obviously a Jedi of the highest caliber. If he says their focus is on the _Commando,_ then their focus is on the _Commando._

“Okay,” Clint says, readying his hands over the controls. He wonders if he should have let Rogers pilot after all, but cuts that line of thought off before doubt can creep in too far.

“Four,” Rogers says, tensing in his seat, “three, two - ”

Clint jabs the control the instant Rogers gets to ‘one,’ blasting them into the upper atmosphere and swinging them around in an arc, using the curve of the planet to give them lift. The shuttle is flung into space, engines screaming, and Clint points their nose in the direction of the jump point and prays.

“Come on,” he whispers, not for himself or for Rogers, but for Coulson. “Come on, come on, come _on_ \- ”

The HYDRA cruiser spots them. It turns. Rogers fires one potshot at its forward guns, then two, and then they’re at the jump point and Clint is slamming down on the hyperspace drive. The stars lengthen and extend around them, and this is _it!_ They are _out!_

“Whew,” Clint says, sagging back in his chair. They’re safe in hyperspace now. “We are never doing that again.”

“I sincerely hope not,” Coulson says hoarsely from the back of the shuttle. 

Clint spins the pilot seat around. Coulson is levering himself off the bench Clint laid him out on, looking shaky and terrible. There are dark circles under his eyes and his hair is matted, but despite all of that, he's still the most beautiful thing Clint has ever seen.

Clint realizes that he’s probably projecting that, but Coulson doesn’t seem to notice. He doesn’t look back at Clint at all - he looks at Rogers.

“Nice to meet you, Captain,” Coulson says. “My name is Phil Coulson, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. Welcome back.”


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My fabulous beta's were even more fabulous than usual this week. THANK YOU LADIES!

“Thank you, sir,” Rogers says awkwardly. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Coulson admits. Clint finally kicks himself into moving and abandons the pilot’s seat to grab Coulson's elbow. Coulson takes the assistance, but he still doesn’t look at Clint. “The pressure of the Tesseract lessened considerably as soon as we reached space.” He turns to eye the glowing blue case warily. “I don’t think it liked being held planetside.”

Clint shivers and looks back at the box. Is it his imagination, or does it seem brighter here in the darkness of space? He shakes his head. “We should have destroyed it.”

“Like I said, I don’t think we can,” Rogers tells him, but he doesn’t sound happy about it. “We should discuss what we’re going to do with it.”

Coulson sighs. “There’s nothing to discuss. This is too dangerous a weapon to ever fall into HYDRA’s hands, but we can’t take it to Coruscant either. It needs to be locked away, somewhere deep, where no one will ever find it.” He hesitates. “I know a place.”

Clint blinks as Coulson gives Rogers the coordinates. “We can’t go there,” he argues. “Coulson, you’re barely able to stand as it is - there’s no way you’ll be able to withstand the Force pressure remnant that lingers around Endor.” 

“Endor?” Rogers asks with a frown. “I don’t recognize that system.”

Coulson shakes his head. “We have a lot of history to catch you up on, Captain,” he says, “and I’ll be fine,” he adds to Clint, withdrawing his hand and straightening so that he’s standing on his own. Clint lets him, but he doesn’t like it - Coulson’s still shaking. “I have to be.”

“Why?” Clint presses. He knows his frustration has leaked out into his voice, but he’s past the point of caring. Coulson was down and out, and now he’s awake, and while that’s wonderful, Clint can’t stand the thought of him in danger again. “We’ve been at this nonstop since we left Hoth. You pushed yourself hard on Dagobah and then you collapsed. I still don’t know what happened down there.” Coulson looks away, saying nothing, his mouth pressing into a firm line. Clint’s worry explodes. “By the seven hells, Coulson, would you just _look at me?_ ”

Coulson takes in a sharp breath, turns his head, and meets Clint’s eyes. The moment he does, he flinches. 

Clint reels as if struck. Coulson looks like death, and he has never, _ever_ flinched when he looked at Clint before. Not ever. “What _happened_ to you?”

“I had a vision,” Coulson admits in a low voice. “I’m sorry.”

“A vision?” Clint echoes. He’s heard of the power of Force visions, everyone has. “What did you see?”

But Coulson shakes his head and looks away. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, pushing steel into his voice. “What matters now is that we keep the Tesseract secure, and the only place I can think of that’s safe enough is Endor. Fury has a secret facility in orbit - we can take the Tesseract there, and they can study it. No one goes to Endor unless they have to. It’ll be safe.”

Clint’s still reeling, but he’s been around Coulson long enough now to know when pushing will only make him more obstinate. “Fine,” he growls. “Endor it is. Can we at least call the _Helicarrier Gold_ and let them know that we’re safe?”

“As soon as we’re able to lock down a secure channel,” Coulson agrees. His tenuous grip over his body falters, and his shaking returns full force. Clint hurries forward to catch him before he can fall, guiding him back down to the bench. Coulson tenses when Clint touches him, but he doesn’t brush him away. “Now, Captain,” he says instead of looking at Clint. “Let’s talk. A lot has happened since you crashed.”

 

*

 

Clint leaves Coulson and Rogers alone and sinks back into the pilot’s seat, letting the impromptu history lesson wash over him. He keeps his eyes focused on the controls. He can still see the pain in Coulson’s eyes when he’d looked at Clint, the anguish on his face. He doesn’t know what Coulson saw down there on Dagobah, but whatever it was, it couldn’t have been good.

Clint shivers. What could have been so bad? Did Coulson have a vision of the future, or of the past? Clint was obviously involved somehow, and it was bad enough to make Coulson react like that.

Clint’s stomach rolls. He doesn’t want to think about what Coulson might have seen. Clint’s taken a lot of jobs he’s not proud of, and he’s done too many things he should never have done. It’s not hard to imagine that Coulson would be disgusted by him. He’s never flinched when he’s looked at Clint before, but he’s only known Clint’s history on paper - he’s never seen it acted out in the flesh. Clint’s heard that Force visions can be hyper-realistic and frightening. He doesn’t want to imagine what terrible things Coulson might have witnessed up close. 

It doesn’t matter. Clint had been going to say something, maybe confess his feelings, but that’s obviously a bad idea. Coulson can’t even stand to look at him. There’s no need to make it worse.

Clint turns his focus back to the shuttle controls. He radios ahead and talks to Hill, and then steers them through hyperspace until they finally drop into the Endor system hours later. The moment they do, Clint shudders. He’s practically Force null, but even _he_ can feel the lingering wash of energy that hovers where the Emperor died - the cold, dark rage of it. Rogers and Coulson both turn pale. Clint wants to spin the ship around and get them the hell out of there, but Coulson stands firm.

“Bring us around to this heading,” he tells Clint, leaning forward to tap on the navigation screen. “Bearing oh-one-point-six-point-two-point-three.” 

Clint does as ordered. In orbit around Endor, above the barely-there glimmer of the forest moon’s defense shield, spins a hulk of twisted wreckage. As he understands it, the destruction of the second Death Star had scattered the remains of that epic death machine and the cruisers that had defended it across this entire region of space, but time and gravity have drawn them together again. In the thousand years since the Empire was destroyed, the remnants have coalesced into a huge ball of armour plating, composed of twisted steel and floating bodies. Space pirates occasionally use the terrible remains as a staging ground, but no one with a shred of the Force sensitivity to their name can stay in this place for long. It drives all but the extremely null insane.

“Come around,” Coulson says softly, not far from Clint’s ear. “Keep your eyes peeled - you’ll recognize it when you see it.”

Clint doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He pilots the shuttle over the largest chunks of wreckage, past shattered steel hulls still painted with laser fire. There are occasional glimpses of light just out of sight, ancient power packs still humming, red, green, and white flashes that look like ghosts in the distance.

Three sets of red lights begin to blink in sequence, though. “Over there,” Coulson indicates, pointing towards them, and Clint follows his directions to what looks suspiciously like a docking bay.

“What the - ” he asks, because the bay doors are scored black, but as the shuttle drifts closer, the red lights change to green, and the doors begin to slide open. “No way.”

Coulson nods, a hard, satisfied smile on his face. “Gentlemen,” he says, “welcome to Pegasus.”

It takes all of Clint’s considerable piloting skills to bring them safely into the bay. There are none of the usual safety protocols in place - no tractor beams or radio coordinates or secondary spotters. Clint supposes they would leak too much energy. The entire point of a secret base is that it remain undetectable, after all. Instead of relying on outside assistance, he has to manually bring them into line with the bay and dock the shuttle himself - it’s difficult enough that it keeps him focused, even when all he wants to do is hurl.

The pressure against his mind is growing stronger. Beside him, Coulson is white-knuckled against the back of his chair. Rogers looks sick.

They finally land, and the bay re-pressurizes. A trio of scientists wearing S.H.I.E.L.D. logo lab coats walk in. 

“Over here,” Coulson says, standing at the shuttle door as it opens. He indicates the Tesseract. “Take this to level nine and secure it - protocol red.”

“Yes, sir,” one of the scientists says. She pulls over a grav-lift and Rogers raises his hand. The Tesseract in it’s box floats into the air and is brought gently to rest on the lift. Clint swallows against the bile that rises in his throat.

“Okay, boys,” Coulson says, turning back to Clint and Rogers as the scientists guide the Tesseract away. “This is where I get off. Clint, your orders are to escort Captain Rogers to Coruscant and rendezvous with the _Helicarrier Gold._ Bring him up to speed, but don’t let anyone order him around. He’s a Jedi and he deserves the chance to make his own choices. Fury will understand. I’ll send him a missive from here.”

“What?” Clint protests. “No! You can’t stay here, Coulson.”

“I need to,” Coulson says firmly. His face is pale, but his shoulders are resolute. “The Tesseract is here, and it can’t be left unguarded. The security we have in place just isn’t good enough. I need to remain here to coordinate efforts to understand and then destroy the Tesseract, if we can.”

“Then I’ll stay,” Clint offers. “I’m practically Force null, I can - ”

“ _No,_ ” Coulson almost shouts. He visibly gains control over himself. “No, Clint,” he repeats in a quieter voice. “Not you.”

He sounds… angry. Clint swallows heavily. What did Coulson _see?_ “Please,” he tries, desperation leaking into his voice. “Whatever your vision was, it can’t have been this bad.”

“It was,” Coulson argues, his voice implacable. He meets Clint’s eyes, and there’s that flinch again, that subtle, between-the-eyebrows twitch. “It was, Clint.”

Clint blinks and looks away. He feels sick. This is all his fault. Maybe Coulson’s vision wasn’t of the past - maybe it was of the future. He saw something on Dagobah that destroyed Coulson’s faith in him. 

Coulson doesn’t trust him any more. 

“Phil - ” Clint starts, his voice hoarse, but Coulson interrupts him.

“Captain Rogers,” he says, looking away from Clint. “In case I don’t have the chance to say this again, please allow me to say - it was a pleasure to meet you.”

“You, too, sir,” Rogers says, standing. He glances once at Clint and then back. “Good luck.”

Coulson nods. His eyes dart to Clint’s and then away, and then he’s stepping back before Clint can say anything. He triggers the hatch and it closes. Coulson’s left standing on the other side.

Clint opens his mouth, shuts it, and then stands silent as Coulson walks away with sure steps, following the scientists. His hands are trembling, but even as Clint watches, he clenches his fingers into fists to hide them.

“Come on,” Clint says hoarsely, sinking back down into the pilot’s seat. Coulson’s obviously made his decision. Anything Clint says now would just be pathetic. “We need to get you out of here. You’ve just been thawed from carbonite, for Hutt’s sake. You need Medical.”

“Would now be an appropriate time to mention that I was blind for the first few seconds after the thawing process was done?” Rogers says with a ghost of a smile.

Clint turns around to glare at him. “Absolutely.” He shakes his head and keys the controls. “Goddamn hero complex,” he mutters. The shuttle lifts, and the bay doors begin to open. “I’m surrounded by idiots.”

Rogers doesn’t say anything else as the shuttle flies away. Clint glances back at the fading base behind them more than once, his eyes on the sensor echo as it slowly fades away.

“Goodbye, Coulson,” he whispers, when he’s far enough from the gravity well to trigger the hyperspace drive. Rogers has the decency not to say anything. “Good luck.”

 

*

 

Fury is thrilled to see Rogers when they finally dock with the _Helicarrier Gold_ orbiting Coruscant, which means he actually smiles and shakes his hand before ordering him to get his dumb, ancient ass to medical. Clint watches him go and expects a thorough chewing out, but Fury surprises him. “You did good here, Clint,” he says. “You did really good.”

“I let HYDRA destroy the _Commando!_ ” Clint protests, hours of self-recrimination spilling out. “I left Coulson to rot away in some dark Force prison! I taught Rogers Cloud City sabacc rules on the way back to Coruscant! I did everything except _good,_ sir!”

The sabacc thing had been because he’d been going out of his mind with guilt, and had needed _something_ to focus on. Piloting a ship through known hyperspace routes had not been nearly challenging enough. Rogers had picked the game up surprisingly quickly.

Or not so surprisingly, apparently. “My best friend taught me the basics,” Rogers had said while they were on their way back. “I don’t know if he made the history books, but his name was Bucky.”

Clint had swallowed against the lump in his throat. Coulson always loved this history stuff. “Yeah, he did. Make the books, I mean. Even I know that story - Bucky Barnes, childhood friend to Steven Rogers, lost in the Battle of Sluis Van.”

Rogers’ shoulders had tightened. “Yeah, that’s the one. Anyways. Bucky taught me.”

Behind his desk, Fury shrugs. “Listen, Barton - you got yourself, Agent Coulson, Captain Rogers, and the Tesseract off of Dagobah in one piece. You followed Agent Coulson’s orders and dropped him off at the Pegasus facility, as requested. You kept Captain Rogers sane and tightened his commitment to S.H.I.E.L.D., although,” he frowns. “ _Cloud City Rules?_ Really? You should have gone with _Corellian Gambit,_ at the very least.”

“Sorry, sir,” Clint says, his shoulders slumping. He needs to curl into a ball of misery, sleep, eat, shower, and sleep again. “It’s harder to score zero, and I like the challenge.”

“That you do,” Fury says, reaching up and catching Clint on the shoulder. He squeezes. “Get yourself to Medical, Agent, and then rest. You’ve got the next cycle off.”

“Yes, sir,” Clint says, almost stumbling when Fury lets go. He isn’t sure how he gets himself out of the Director’s office and back down to his quarters, but he’s pretty sure that Natasha materializes beside him at some point.

“I left him,” he tells her, woozy with exhaustion. “I left him.”

“You did what you had to do,” she says kindly, wiping a clean cloth across his face. Clint realizes that somehow he’s undressed and tucked under the covers. “Sleep, now. I’ll keep watch.”

“Tasha,” he says, lifting a hand so she’ll catch it. “I left him.”

She kisses his knuckles. “I know.” 

Clint closes his eyes. She’s here with him. He sleeps.

 

*

 

In the morning, Clint learns he’s been assigned full time to Steve. 

He’s forced to call him ‘Steve’ after a day or two, because ‘Rogers’ starts wearing thin. When you’ve explained to a man that he can’t wear his boots slipshod because _oh my god, no one does that anymore, what are you, old?_ and have been laughed at six times in a row, you have to give it up and go with first names.

Tasha’s around for a little while, but Fury sends her on a mission and she disappears. Clint and Steve are sent to Coruscant. It’s a little awkward, since Steve doesn’t need a bodyguard, but he doesn’t actually seem to mind the company. They walk the streets and Steve tells him what’s changed and what hasn’t. When the Jedi Council summons Steve to see them, Clint waits for him outside. 

The meeting lasts three hours, and when Steve finally exits the building, he’s almost shaking.

“Are you okay?” Clint asks, jogging over to him. Steve had exited out the back door. Thankfully, the news of his recovery has been kept strictly need to know, but it won’t be long before someone recognizes his face. He’s been idolized in holonovels, statues, and history books, after all. He can’t remain a secret for long.

“Yeah,” Steve says, answering Clint. He has a look on his face that Clint’s never seen before, almost shell-shocked, like he’s realized for the first time that he can’t go home.

“Are you sure?” Clint presses, even though he’s not sure why he’s asking. The answer is obviously no.

“I’m fine,” Steve says, but it’s slower than normal. He blinks, looks around, and then looks back at Clint. “Really.”

“Okay,” Clint says, and wonders if he should touch Steve, if that’d be okay. Then he realizes that if it were _him_ in Steve’s shoes, he’d want the connection. He puts his hand on Steve’s shoulder and squeezes. “If you say so.”

“I…” For a moment, Steve looks lost. He looks small and fragile and _young._ “I need a drink.”

“Come with me,” Clint says, tugging him. “I know just where to go.”

They end up at the dive bar where Clint and Coulson recruited Natasha. At first it’s good, but then the memories start to hurt. Clint’s seen Coulson once since they left him at Pegasus - on a double-holo call with Fury when the Director had called him for an update. Even as a hologram, Coulson had looked worn. Thin around the edges. 

“I can’t get drunk,” Steve explains when Clint orders for them both. He stares at the shot glass filled with smoking green liquid.

“That’s okay, it’ll still taste good,” Clint says, throwing back his shot. It burns all the way down, and he coughs. “Or maybe not.”

He isn’t sure how long they’re there for, but at some point Natasha shows up, and then she’s laughing as Steve carries Clint’s inebriated body back to street level. 

“Natas’a’s good people, Steve,” Clint slurs as they coordinate getting him into the hotel room S.H.I.E.L.D. has rented for them. He’s absolutely helping them, he’s sure of it. It’s just that his feet aren’t listening very good. “Natas’a an’ Sam, gotta get you t’ meet Sam. Sam’s good people, too.” He squints at Natasha to bring her into focus. “Natas’a isn’t allow - allow to - allo _wed_ \- _to_ \- meet Sam, though. Boom,” he explains, miming a star exploding. It makes him wobble on his feet, and he giggles. “Tha’s wha would happen.”

“Uh huh?” Steve says, as they pour Clint into bed. “That’s what would happen, Clint?”

“Uh _huh,_ ” Clint agrees, nodding his head and then stopping, because that makes the room spin. “Whoa.”

“Easy there, soldier,” Steve cautions him. “Do we need to turn you onto your side?”

“‘M not a soldier,” Clint protests. Someone puts their hand on his shoulder and pushes him over onto his side. “‘M nothing. Jus’ a null. Jus’ a null who got lucky.”

“You’re more than that,” someone - Natasha? - says. There’s a hand on his hair. “Easy, Clint.”

In the morning, when he can see straight, Clint apologizes. 

“I’m sorry about that, Cap,” he says, feeling horrible and incredibly embarrassed. “I don’t tend to go on a bender like that often.” 

“It’s okay,” Steve says easily. He’s sitting at the table in the little side room the room has, with a book. “Alcohol can be a release.”

That doesn’t actually make Clint feel any better. “Not for me,” he explains. “My dad, he - well, he was a mean drunk. I swore off the stuff. Didn’t want to end up like him.”

“You aren’t a mean drunk, Clint,” Steve tells him with a kind smile. “A little cuddly, actually, and I think you tried to fall asleep on Natasha about six times, but not mean.”

“Natasha loves it, and if she didn’t, she’d kick my ass,” Clint says, waving away that concern. “She’s well aware that subtlety is lost on me.”

“If you say so,” Steve says, and then goes back to his book.

Clint peers at the padd. “What are you reading?”

Steve colours. “A historical text. Don’t laugh! I wanted to see what you guys got wrong,” he defends. “As it turns out, nearly everything.”

“Oh, really?” Clint asks. “So your team didn’t lead the fight against HYDRA during the dying days of the Old Republic?”

“Well, we did, kind of. I mean we didn’t know the Old Republic was so fragile back then, but,” Steve says awkwardly. He gestures to the book. “They said I did it singlehandedly, though, and they hardly talk about the Commandos. They got Jedi Carter’s part completely wrong, too.”

Clint shrugs. “So? Write your own history book then. Set the record straight.”

Steve looks uncomfortable. “Fury said I couldn’t go public yet - he wants to wait until HYDRA is defeated.”

“That’ll take another thousand years,” Clint points out. “HYDRA is like the Sith, Steve - they can only be beaten back, not destroyed.”

Steve’s jaw tightens. “We have to try, though.”

“Yeah,” Clint admits with a sigh. “We have to try. So, I never asked - what did the Jedi Council say?”

Steve shifts in his chair. “Well, they talked a little about what you and Agent Coulson said, about how much things have changed. I took Jedi orders over a thousand years ago - the galaxy is a very different place.”

Clint doesn’t really think it’s all that different, but then again, he doesn’t have the perspective Steve does. “Did they kick you out?” 

“No,” Steve says, shaking his head. “They let me keep my shield, actually, and my title. I’m still the only Captain the Jedi have ever had. But they said I should think about it before coming back, look at my options.” He takes a deep breath. “They want me to think about working for S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Clint raises his eyebrow. “Yeah? I wonder how Fury managed that?”

Steve shrugs. “I’m not sure that he did. The Jedi Masters are a hard group of people to manipulate. They seem to honestly think that I need time to reevaluate my life and my work.”

“The Jedi live by a hard code,” Clint says slowly. He thinks of Coulson. “I know I couldn’t hack it.”

“Yes, well,” Steve says. For some reason, he blushes. “It wasn’t easy. But, ah, moving on - I think a little more sightseeing this week, and then it’ll be time to go back to the _Helicarrier Gold._ What do you think?”

“Ugh, sunlight,” Clint says, flopping back against the bed. “It burns my eyes.”

Steve chuckles. “You’re that not much of an old spacer, Clint.”

“Older than you, greenie,” Clint says. “Okay, just, give me a minute.”

“You can have ten,” Steve says generously. 

“Fuck you, Rogers,” Clint groans, and Steve laughs.

 

*

 

They walk around Coruscant for another two days, and then Clint gets a call on his emergency channel. 

“Barton here,” he responds, thumbing on the holo-network in the corner of the modern art museum Steve has dragged him into.

“Agent,” Fury says, looking intimidating. He’s standing on the bridge of the _Helicarrier Gold,_ and behind him, Clint can see another hologram running. It’s hard to make out, even for him, but he’s pretty sure that it’s Coulson. If it is, he looks stressed. “I need you to come back, ASAP. We have a situation developing.”

“I’m on my way,” Clint says, already calculating routes. The _Helicarrier Gold_ left spacedock several days ago, but he should be able to take a transport to their nearest coordinates. “What about Rogers?”

“Leave him there, this doesn’t require him. This is S.H.I.E.L.D. business until I say otherwise,” Fury explains. “But give him a comm unit. I have a feeling something big is coming.”

“Will do,” Clint says, and then signs off. “Steve,” he says five minutes later, having found him deep inside a holographic depiction of some kind of art project Clint can’t make heads or tails of. “I’ve got to go.”

“Isn’t this gorgeous?” Steve murmurs, his eyes huge, before he realizes what Clint said and straightens. “What’s going on?”

Clint shakes his head. “I don’t know yet. Fury wants me, though, so I’ve got to go. Here, take my comm - Natasha is still around somewhere. She’ll come for you if you're needed.”

Steve frowns, but he takes the comm. “That doesn’t sound encouraging.”

Clint shrugs. “That’s the nature of the beast. I’ll do my best to keep you in the loop, okay?”

“Okay,” Steve agrees. “Good luck, Clint.”

“Thanks, Captain,” Clint says. They shake hands. “You, too.”

 

*

 

Clint ends up catching a ride on a no-frills transport to Bestine and then meeting up with the _Helicarrier Gold_ at Yag’Dhul. He and Fury take a personal transport to Endor - just the two of them, with Clint at the helm. 

“You didn’t want Hill on this one, sir?” Clint says, more to break the heavy silence than anything else.

Fury shakes his head. “She needs to stay with the ship, and besides, I wanted your opinion on Phil.”

Clint tenses. “What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know,” Fury all but growls. “He’s my best friend - I’m not unbiased when it comes to his judgement. I think I need another set of eyes. You worked with him for years and you know him well.”

Clint’s mouth tightens. “I never should have left him there. I should have stayed in his place.”

“Rogers wouldn’t have settled as well with Coulson as with you,” Fury disagrees. “He didn’t need an admirer, he needed a friend. Besides, _I_ wanted Phil at Pegasus. Security has been enhanced and he’s given me real, on the ground intelligence that’s proven its weight already. We’re here today because Coulson called me and told me that the Tesseract was acting up. I don’t like the way he’s shaking, though.”

“It’s the Dark Side of the Force,” Clint insists. “It’s messing with his brain.”

Fury doesn’t look convinced. “Coulson underwent the Trials at Yavin Four, he can handle the Force. This is something else.”

“Freaking visions,” Clint mutters darkly.

Fury starts. “What?”

Clint twists in his seat to look at him. They're coming up on Endor now. “Visions, sir. Coulson told me he’d had a vision when he was on Dagobah.”

Fury stares hard at him. “Do you know what it was?”

Clint shakes his head, guilt heavy in his chest. “He wouldn’t tell me.”

Fury glowers.

“Honestly,” Clint says, lifting both hands. “He wouldn’t. I don’t know anything.”

“You know more than me,” Fury grumbles, “and I don’t like it. He should have told me.”

Clint’s board chirps, and he looks back at it. The shifting wreckage of Endor fills his screen. “Um, sir? Do we approach?”

“I’m thinking,” Fury says. He waits a beat, but finally nods. “Yes - we’re already here. I wish he’d told me everything, but it’s too late now. Take us in.”

Clint does as he says. It’s easier to guide them into the unlit docking bay this time, familiarity making the task less difficult. The weight of Emperor Palpatine’s rage still sits heavy on his chest, but he pushes his way past it. Fury seems to have a better handle on it than he does. Clint would never have known he was Force-sensitive except for the slightly more tense angle to his shoulders.

Clint secures the ship while Fury waits at the transport door. The moment the docking bay re-pressurizes, Fury triggers the hatch. 

“Sir,” Coulson says. Clint cranes his head around to see him walking into the bay. “I’m glad you - ” He stops, his already pale face losing another shade of colour as he catches sight of Clint. “What is _he_ doing here?”

Clint tries not to show how much that hurts, but some of it must leak into his expression. Fury shoots him a concerned look before glancing back at Coulson. 

“I brought him with me to evaluate your condition,” Fury says bluntly, “but I didn't realize I was operating without all the facts. You had a vision, Coulson. What was it?”

Coulson looks away, his jaw tightening. Clint stares at him - Coulson’s normally impeccable suit is wrinkled, and his cuffs are frayed. The shadows beneath his eyes hang heavily. He looks to have aged ten years in the weeks since Clint has last seen him. 

“Nothing,” Coulson says, speaking in a low voice that’s tinged with some emotion Clint can’t name. “I didn’t see anything.”

“Agent,” Fury growls. “Tell me. What did you _see?_ ”

Coulson avoids Fury’s glare and looks at Clint instead. There’s something desperate in his eyes. “I - ”

A klaxon sounds overhead. Harsh red lights appear along the docking bay walls and begin blinking. Coulson shakes his head. “This is what I wanted you here for, sir. The Tesseract is misbehaving. We may have a code red scenario.”

Fury hesitates, looking back at Clint, and then, finally, steps forward off the transport. “Coulson, keep talking. Barton, with me.”

Coulson glances anxiously once back at Clint before falling into line behind Fury. “The team I’ve put together has been exemplary. In this short period of time we’ve had available to us, they’ve managed to learn that the Tesseract acts as a single focus in space - when scanned with various equipment, it betrays the energy signature of a black hole, a hyperspace jump point, a gravity well, and a wormhole, all at the same time.”

“Well, obviously it isn’t a black hole,” Fury notes, “or none of us would be here right now.”

“Yes, sir,” Coulson agrees as he takes the lead through the facility. “Doctor Selvig thinks it’s a doorway - a completely stationary point in space.”

They walk through a hatch and into a large, open lab. The Tesseract is in the middle of floor, out of its box, sitting on a pedestal with several pieces of delicate looking equipment arrayed around it. Clint stares at it. The Tesseract is clearly in distress - shadows roil under its surface, light flashing at odd intervals here and there.

Selvig is standing with a cadre of scientists. He looks up and sees Clint, nodding in acknowledgement.

Clint nods back. He hadn’t realized Selvig had been redirected here, but it makes sense. He wonders if Doctor Foster and Darcy are around, and hopes not. Darcy would go mad in this place.

Coulson takes them down a set of stairs and closer to the Tesseract. “It started doing this yesterday - at first the flashes were random, but they’ve been coming more regularly. The amount of energy it’s putting out is incredible.”

Clint watches the pulsating light and tries not to show his fear. “So, what’s on the other side?”

Coulson and Fury both turn towards him. “What do you mean?” Fury asks.

Clint shrugs. “Well, you said it’s a doorway, right? Doors swing both ways.”

He sees that realization strike them the moment before the Tesseract erupts. An arc of blue light flares out from its surface and splashes against the walls of the laboratory. People and equipment go flying backwards. Clint grabs onto a desk and manages to keep his feet - he stretches out a hand for Coulson but can’t reach him. He’s never wished for Force Pull more than when he sees Coulson go crashing past him and hit the floor. He lays there, stunned, but he’s breathing. Clint drags his gaze back to the spot where the blue light is condensing, coalescing into a pattern in the middle of the floor.

For a moment, it’s beautiful. He can _just_ make out the pure symmetry of its wavelength, the aching gorgeousness of its curves, but then the design fractures. The pattern is lost. A rip appears in the centre of the blue - a wide, violent slash - and a man is deposited suddenly on the laboratory floor.

Fury is one of the only people to have kept his feet. He steps forward, approaching the strange man kneeling on the floor.

“Sir!” Fury says, and the man looks up. Clint has a moment to take in the oddly shaped clothes, the long, dark, lanky hair, and the glowing sceptre clutched in his right hand. “Put down the spear!”

The man stands. He’s almost familiar - like a cousin of someone Clint once knew, or maybe that’s just his clothes - and seems to realize for the first time that he’s holding something in his hand. He looks down at the sceptre and then back at Fury. His face twists into an expression of sick pleasure, and then he thrusts the sceptre forward.

A roiling blast of power erupts from the glowing tip. Clint launches himself forward and tackles Fury, throwing him to the ground and holding him there as a concussive force washes over them. Two more shots follow. Around them, the entire facility shudders, then it groans, and begins to shake. Clint looks around in horror. This base is sturdy, but it wasn’t made to withstand an attack of this magnitude. 

The man - alien? - has laid waste to the research equipment, reducing it to piles of smoking ash. Clint looks desperately around for any sign of Coulson, and sees that Selvig has pulled him to one side of the room. He’s still unconscious, and Clint wants to go to him, but he can’t leave Fury.

“Here,” Fury grunts. He passes Clint his backup piece. “Get them out of here.”

Clint hesitates, but then Fury presses the blaster into his hand. Clint takes a deep breath, fires a few distraction shots, then turns and sprints, running to the side of one of the scientists cowering against the back wall. 

“Go, go, go!” Clint shouts. He unloads Fury’s blaster at the man with the sceptre. Behind him, the scientist scrambles away toward the door.

Clint’s aim is perfect, but the alien raises the sceptre in front of his face and Clint's shot disappears. It’s like the energy has been absorbed into the material of the sceptre.

Clint blinks, but he doesn’t waste more time than that. He throws away the blaster and flicks his wrist, his bow leaping into his hand. Clint doesn’t have his full quiver, but he has an emergency pack held flat against his back. Between one breath and the next, he’s released six arrows, each landing equidistant from the man and exploding as one. The smoke and distraction allow three more scientists to get away. Clint looks over his shoulder and sees that someone has grabbed Coulson.

Clint relieved, but Selvig is still here, and Fury, too. The man with the sceptre steps through the smoke of Clint’s arrows without a scratch on him. 

Clint launches himself forward. He tries to distract him with a kick and then goes for a punch, but the alien takes the hit to his thigh and doesn’t break stride. He catches Clint’s fist with his hand and turns it, hyperextending Clint’s elbow and making him wince.

“You,” he says, looking straight into Clint’s eyes. He cocks his head. “You have heart.”

The alien lifts the sceptre. It touches the centre of Clint's chest, and Clint grunts in pain. From far away, he can hear someone scream. It sounds like Coulson. Then a blue mist rises in front of his eyes, coolness spreading through him, and the galaxy explodes. Order, chaos, light, and dark - it all swirls together in glorious array. 

When it fades, all past memories fade with it. Clint is left an empty, aching shell. 

_Stand with me,_ whispers a voice inside his mind. _Be my shield._

_Yes, sir,_ Clint replies. He retracts his bow. _I am yours._


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a wild ride! Thank you everyone for sticking with it. To my wonderful betas, thank you, _thank you,_ _THANK YOU._ I've been working on this story for over two years. You helped bring it to life.

The only thing Clint knows is Loki, the only thing he’s aware of is blue mist. He understands that he’s walking and talking, and occasionally shooting at people, but most of that is peripheral. 

The next thing he knows _clearly_ is that he’s standing with Loki in an abandoned base, somewhere on the Outer Rim. It’s dark and damp, but Clint knows that it’s secure, heavily fortified, and almost impossible to find. He only has a vague idea where they are, but he knows that he picked this location when Loki had asked.

“Tell me about this galaxy, Agent Barton,” Loki says, and so Clint does. He starts with a brief overview of the Old Republic, the rise of the Empire, its destruction, and the current system. 

“Good,” Loki says, when Clint is done. “Now tell me about S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Clint nods. He tells Loki everything, what S.H.I.E.L.D. is, its strengths and weaknesses, its recent missions, overall goals, and the names of its top commanding officers. He feels nothing while he relates this information except a dull, distant pleasure at being so good a servant to such a worthy god.

“Excellent,” Loki purrs. “Now tell me what S.H.I.E.L.D. will do next.”

Clint doesn’t need to wonder. “They’ll come after us,” Clint assures him. “They’ll round up everyone they’ve got, and they’ll hunt us down.”

“As I suspected,” Loki says. “Who will they gather?”

Clint tells him about Stark and his armour, Banner and his alternate self, Steve and his history, and Natasha. Loki wants to know more about her, so Clint tells him. Loki wants to know how to break her, so Clint tells him that, too.

“I chose well in you, Agent Barton,” Loki praises. “You serve your master with distinction.”

Clint smiles. “Thank you, sir.”

“Now tell me about yourself,” Loki orders. “How can you serve me now that you’ve told me everything I need to know?”

“I can hit any target,” Clint assures him, “and I can cloak myself in the Force.”

Loki cocks his head. “Yes, this ‘Force.’ What is it?’”

Clint gestures vaguely. “It’s an energy field that surrounds all living things.”

“Ahh, you mean the Aesir-ia,” Loki says. “‘Energy field’ is a crude way to describe it.”

“We’re a crude people, sir,” Clint says with a shrug.

“That you are,” Loki agrees. “Show me this ‘cloak.’”

Clint nods and gathers the strands of the Force around him, weaving them into a tight cocoon. He hopes his master will be pleased, but instead, Loki laughs.

It’s a low, mean sound. “Oh, that is amusing,” Loki says. “You mean to say that in this form the - what did you call them? The ‘Force’ users of this galaxy cannot sense you? That’s precious.”

Clint drops the cloak. “Yes, sir.”

“No, no - ” Loki protests. “Keep it up. It makes me smile to see you like this.” He laughs again. “Such a primitive people. It is good for you that I have come.”

“Yes, master,” Clint agrees. He dutifully resumes his cloak.

He holds the Force-cocoon while the talk shifts again to strategy, and then when they attack Corellia for Jager-Kuun’s eyeball. He holds the cocoon while they travel through hyperspace, and when they bait the _Helicarrier Gold_ into combat above the skies of Coruscant. 

Clint doesn’t eat, sleep, or relax the entire time he’s with Loki. When he fights Natasha on the catwalk above the detention centre, he’s exhausted and starting to fray at the edges. His senses are beginning to shift and lengthen, the drum of the labouring engines becoming an ever-present whine.

He still fights as best as he’s able, but finally, there’s a crack in the ever-present blue. It’s a tiny fracture that breaks wide open when Natasha roundhouse kicks him in the face.

“Na-Natasha?” Clint asks, staring up at her from his knees. 

She looks into his eyes, and then she kicks him again.

 

*

 

The first thing Clint’s aware of when he wakes up in Medical is that the blue mist is gone. The second thing is that he aches all over, and the third is that he’s not alone.

“Hey,” Natasha says, leaning over him. “Welcome back.”

“Mmmphm,” Clint says, turning and throwing up in the bucket she’s thoughtfully provided for him. Memories of what he did under Loki’s control flood back to him, vivid in their detail. “Oh, _fuck_. Natasha, what - ?”

“It’s okay,” Natasha tells him. “I’m here.”

Clint stares at her. He remembers everything he told Loki, every secret he exposed. “I’m _sorry._ ”

She meets his eyes. “I know you are. It’s all right, I don’t blame you. Loki is a Force-being from another galaxy - no one could have resisted his control.”

Clint’s distantly aware that he’s starting to shake. “I could have tried harder, I could have - ” He swallows down bile. “Natasha, I told him _everything._ ”

“ _Good,_ ” she hisses, suddenly fierce. “And you _survived_. You survived and you’re here now, and together we’re going to take him down.”

Clint meets her eyes, and he nods. “Yes. Yes, we are.” He tries to get up, realizes that his arms are restrained, and blinks. “Who’s with us?”

“I don’t know,” Natasha says, moving to unlock his cuffs. “Whoever's left.” 

There’s something off about her voice - something sad. Clint stares at her. “Nat…?”

She shakes her head. “Ask me later.”

Clint’s breath catches in his throat. He wants to press, but there’s a clunk from outside the room, and the door opens.

“Natasha?” Steve asks, poking his head in the room. “Are you - ? _Clint,_ ” he breathes, sounding relieved. “How’re you doing?”

“I’m okay,” Clint says automatically, even though he feels like ten miles of Tatooine road. “What’s going on?”

“Loki’s escaped and he’s headed for Coruscant,” Steve explains, not bothering to mince his words. “We’re going after him.”

“Let me come with you,” Clint says, pulling himself to his feet. “I can fight.”

“Easy there,” Steve says, catching him. “You’re still weak. Natasha hit you pretty hard.”

“I’m fine,” Clint says. “I need to make this right.” His memories are sharp, twisted things - terror, fear, and blood. So much blood on his hands. “I need to try.”

Natasha looks at him sharply. “It wasn’t your fault.” 

Clint shakes his head. “It was my bow, my mind, my _strategy._ ” He looks at Steve. “I need to help, please.”

Steve looks into his face, and nods. “Okay. I don’t like it, I think it’s too much of a risk to you, but you’re the one who gets to make that choice. You have until we're planetside to get into fighting shape. If you stumble even once, though, I’m pulling you out.”

Clint nods. “That’s fair.”

Natasha shoots him a worried glance, but whatever she sees makes her nod. She looks back at Steve. “I’ll make sure he’s okay.”

Steve meets both their eyes. “All right.” He seems to think of something, and glances at Natasha, but she shakes her head. Steve lets it go. “I’ll see you on the Quinjet,” he says as he turns and leaves.

“What was that?” Clint asks. His knees are already wobbling, though, and he stumbles back until he hits the gurney. The sounds around him are at their normal volume again, but his skin still feels hypersensitive and he’s well aware that he hasn’t eaten in days. 

He knows he’s pushed himself too far already. He remembers Coulson, back when Clint had first come aboard the _Helicarrier Gold,_ telling him to rest after overexerting himself or he’d get nerve damage.

Clint’s ready to risk it now. He needs to make this right. “Give me a stim shot.”

Natasha’s mouth tightens. “You should sleep,” she tells him, but she’s already reaching for the drawer. She grabs a stim shot, lines it up next to his leg, and pushes down on the plunger. “How’s that?”

Clint sucks in a breath. The pain is receding and his muscles are growing steadier. “Better,” he exhales. He looks around the MedBay. “Where’s Fury? Where’s Hill? Is Coulson - ?”

“They’re on the bridge,” Natasha interrupts. “Do you need a second one?” She’s holding up another stim shot.

“No, not right now,” Clint tells her. He takes it from her hand and slips it in a pocket. He knows he’s killed a lot of people, but at least those three are okay. Relief floods him. “I’ll keep it for later.”

“Okay,” Natasha says, agreeing with him. She looks up. When their eyes meet, she holds his gaze just a shade too long. That’s either Natasha shorthand for an apology, or the subtlest sign that she’s lying to him in some way.

Clint licks his lips. “Tasha…?”

She moves away from the gurney and waves her hand towards the door. “Come on,” she says, avoiding his eyes as she leads the way out of the medical bay. “I’ll catch you up on the way.”

Clint nods and follows her. His knees almost buckle, but they hold, and Clint pats the pocket with the second stim shot while he listens to Natasha’s sequence of events. He can’t quite believe her until he sees the massive hole in the floor of the _Helicarrier Gold_ ’s docking bay, the faint shimmer of a force field holding the vacuum back. “The Hulk did this? Really?”

Natasha nods. “Thor stopped him. The Hulk leapt on a Y-wing and disappeared, but Thor stuck around. Together Rogers and Stark figured out what Loki’s next move will be. Thor and Stark are on their way down to Coruscant right now - they both say they can get there faster on their own. Stark’s in his armour, you should see him. He looks a lot different than he did on Tatooine.”

“Yeah, I saw a holovid of the suit,” Clint admits, making his way to a Quinjet and starting the preflight sequence. Fury has a few of these babies on board: souped-up, highly maneuverable shuttles designed for atmospheric work. “It looked capable.”

“It’s even more so up close,” Natasha admits, settling into the gunner’s spot. She sounds almost fond, and Clint remembers that she was assigned to watch Stark a while ago. She taps her comm. “Captain? We’re ready here.”

“On my way,” Steve tells her, and sure enough, he hops into the Quinjet a moment later. “Thor and Stark have arrived and we’re in a stable orbit around Coruscant. Fury said he’ll give us cover as soon as the bay doors open.” He looks at Clint. “Are you good?”

Clint holds his gaze. “I’m good.”

“Okay,” Steve says. “Let’s do this.”

Clint nods and waits, one hand on the controls. Around them, the _Helicarrier Gold_ shudders. A klaxon sounds and the shuttle bay doors open. Clint flies them out of the ship and down to the planet. At first glance, Coruscant looks good. It doesn’t look like anything’s changed. 

“Are you sure he’s here?” Clint asks, maneuvering them around spacescrapers and regular speeder traffic. 

Steve looks grim. “Stark said he would be.”

Clint shrugs and turns them towards Stark Tower. It’s a huge, gaudy building under development in the very heart of the business sector, the first ever to be powered by Stark’s new reactor tech. Clint has seen its construction in the news. Sam isn’t a fan, but Clint has to admit that he finds the bold lines pleasing. He flies them closer, and an energy blast rips across the Quinjet’s nose.

“Hold on!” Clint shouts, spinning them around. He does a barrel roll and looks for Loki. Now that he has a direction, Clint finds him quickly - the pseudo-god is standing on the top of Stark’s new tower, his terrible sceptre pointing towards the sky. His bright green and gold outfit makes the bile rise in Clint’s throat, but his hands remain sure on the controls. 

He has to stop Loki. He has to finish this.

Natasha’s flicks a switch and the Quinjet’s forward guns erupt. Blaster fire splashes over Loki and the pale blue of the Tesseract, but Loki just raises a hand and deflects it. Even from here, Clint can see his smirk.

“Fuck a Hutt,” Clint curses, and pulls them starboard into another barrel roll, bringing them up hard so Natasha can use the twin-laser cannons located on the Quinjet’s underbelly. Her aim is perfect, but Loki doesn’t so much as flinch.

“Hutt’s _balls,_ ” Clint growls. His irritation coils within him, growing darker. “Try _this._ ”

He spins the Quinjet portside, ignoring the warning screech from the engines, and leans over to slam a hand down on Natasha’s controls. Both the forward blasters and the twin-laser cannons erupt at the same time, but Loki just raises the sceptre and absorbs the impact. 

His lips quirk up and he looks straight at Clint despite the distance between them. His shoulders move up and down. Clint feels sick rage flicker to life inside his chest. Loki’s _laughing._

Red begins to cloud Clint’s vision. A terrible power fills him. “Laugh at _this,_ asshole,” Clint snarls, and keys the drive engines to full. He’ll ram the Quinjet down Loki’s throat and _then_ he’ll watch the bastard choke. 

“Clint,” Steve says, appearing suddenly, leaning over the cockpit to look into Clint’s eyes. “Clint, breathe. You’re tapping into the Dark Side of the Force.”

Clint hisses. His hands tighten on the controls. “Get away from me, Rogers. You don’t know what he’s done.”

“No,” Steve agrees, his voice aggravatingly calm. “I don’t. I don’t know what he did to you, or what he did to others, but I know that he’s evil, Clint. He hurt you.”

Clint swallows. The memories cut at him - Loki laughing, Loki soaking up Clint’s secrets, Loki ordering him to attack the _Helicarrier Gold_. “He did.”

“And he will face justice for that,” Steve assures him, his voice implacable, “but if you Fall to the Dark Side while chasing him, then he will have truly won.” 

Clint lets out a strangled sob. He wants to hurt Loki, so very badly. He has the Quinjet and other weapons under his control. He could do it.

Something to his right catches Clint’s attention, and he looks to see that it’s Natasha. Her face is white and her grip has tightened painfully around the controls under her hands. Clint blinks and looks around, suddenly becoming aware that the Quinjet is falling. They’re spinning towards the ground. “What?”

“We were hit,” Natasha says, her voice tight. “We’re going down.”

Clint shakes his head to clear it and grabs the controls. Their port-side thruster has been damaged. He manages to get their nose up, but it’s a struggle. _Damn_ Loki and his mindfuck. 

“Breathe,” Steve says, still sounding absurdly calm. It must be a Jedi thing. Maybe that’s where Coulson gets it from. “Just breathe. Fear, anger, hatred - the Dark Side are they.”

Clint takes a deep breath in, holds it, and lets it out with a shudder. Steve breathes with him. Clint spares Natasha a glance and sees that she’s doing the same. He can’t help but smile, and that helps - the fear loosens, and his anger ebbs with it. The guilt remains, though.

“It’s okay,” Steve says soothingly. “You’re doing well. Keep breathing, Clint. Good. Now bring her down gently.”

Clint nods and guides them down. They’re nearly there when a shock of blue light flares on the viewscreen, and Clint looks up to see that a _hole_ has opened up in the atmosphere. It’s like when Loki had first appeared on the floor of the Pegasus facility - a violent rip in the fabric of space. Natasha leans forward and they stare together as swarms of armour plated _things_ start coming through. The chittering aliens are riding speeder bikes, shooting energy blasts, and there’s a huge, flying _space whale_ coming through the breach behind them. 

Steve blinks. “You know, giant atmospheric wormholes weren’t really a thing, back in my day.” 

Clint frowns and does does his best to maneuver around the energy blasts with one functional thruster. “You don’t say.”

Natasha’s lips tighten into a smile. “Welcome to the future, Cap.”

Steve huffs. “The holovids didn’t lie.”

Clint does what he can to keep them level as he brings them down to land. Around them the speeder bikes duck and swerve, shooting recklessly and toppling buildings. Civilians run around in panic, scattering across the skyways, screaming and pointing. A few of them whip out blasters and start shooting back at the unfamiliar invaders.

Clint makes a face. He admires their courage, but nothing with armour that thick is going to be stopped by a civilian blaster. Sure enough, their shots do nothing. Fortunately, the comm crackles and announces that the Galactic Alliance Military is en route. Clint hopes they get here soon - he and his team will need the firepower.

He’s got the Quinjet more-or-less under control when they’re hit again. Clint loses his starboard-side thruster. “We’re in for a rough landing,” he grits out to Natasha and Steve. “Hang on!”

He fights with the controls, managing to guide them away from civilians. They hit the skyway hard, but aside from a little rattling, none of them are injured. The three of them spill out of the downed Quinjet and start directing people away from the chaos while Thor and Stark patrol the skies. The ugly, chittering aliens swarm, popping off of the space whales with cables, looking like no species Clint’s ever seen before.

“Chitauri,” Thor hisses, flying past him to smash with his mighty hammer a group of aliens approaching Clint’s position. “They’re a vile race of servile beings, having aligned themselves with a Dark Power on the other side of the universe. We must destroy them all.”

“That’s easier said than done,” Clint admits, pulling three arrows from his quiver. The Chitauri armour is strong, but Clint can see a weakness in the joint at the neck. He aims and shoots, and sure enough, each Chitauri Clint hits explodes. Still, that’s only three out of three hundred, three _thousand_ , maybe. Clint ducks to avoid the raining pieces, and then comes back up fighting, blocking the strike of an advancing Chitauri with his bow before smashing it in the face with an arrow.

He’s never been so thankful for his Stark-made tech before. This stuff can take a hit.

The battle rages around them. Clint’s comm crackles, telling him that the Galactic Alliance has arrived and is helping with the battle in orbit, but that there isn’t much they can do for those on the ground. Coruscant's militia arrive and begin fighting back, but they’re disorganized, and their light blasters aren’t enough to do more than anger the Chitauri. 

Stark and Thor are the only ones doing any kind of large-scale damage. Steve and Natasha go for individual attacks, while Clint tries to keep an eye on every member of the team. He takes out a Chitauri about to shoot Natasha, and then one going after Steve, but Stark gets knocked out of the sky and there’s nothing Clint can do about it. Anger bubbles up inside of him. The battle isn’t going well.

Several times he tries to pull on the thin strands of the Force he can feel, hoping that if he can make a cocoon, he can fight more effectively, but each time the effort leaves him wheezing and clutching at his head. He has the sense that if he gave into his anger and fear, if he harnessed that energy, he’d be able to withstand the headache and cloak himself. If he could do that, maybe he could get close enough to one of those space whales to do some real damage. 

But instead Clint focuses on his breathing and tries to remember what Steve said. He can’t fall to the Dark Side. If he does, then Loki will have won, and no matter how strong he became while using the Force that way, Clint himself would lose. He can’t do that. What would Coulson say if he did?

He would be so disappointed. Clint pictures the look on his face, the sorrow that would be in his eyes, and uses that to anchor himself. He shoots a Chitauri, activates his quiver, and synthesizes another two dozen arrows. He pushes the anger back and focuses on doing his job. 

Looking over the area, Clint sees a school transport full of children stranded on the skyway across from him. Quickly synthesizing a grappling arrow, Clint uses it to swing across, and then helps the children down and away from the transport while the battle rages around them.

“Well done, Clint,” Steve says, appearing suddenly to help. Clint looks around, and Natasha is there as well, leading the children away. “I didn’t see the transport until you were already here.”

Clint meets his eyes for a half-second, between grabbing one kid and the next. “I’m good at my job, Cap.”

Steve grins, fierce and proud. “Yes, you are.”

Clint hurries to the edge of the skyway with the last child. He hands the girl over to Natasha, and then has to grab his knees when his legs threaten to buckle. He’s suddenly exhausted. The stim-shot is wearing off.

Natasha shoots him a look. Clint shakes his head, and then lifts a hand to his pocket. If he’s not going to draw upon the Dark Side of the Force, then he’s going to have to do something. Taking the second stim shot from his pocket, Clint rips off the cap with his teeth and plunges the needle into his thigh. The rush of energy from the shot hits him a moment later. Clint takes a deep breath. 

He’s ready. 

They fight on. Clint loses track of time, and of how many arrows he’s lost among the sea of Chitauri. Eventually, the team regroups into a rough semi-circle on the street level of some Coruscant skyway. Clint’s panting, sweat sticking to his skin, and the other members of his team hardly look much better. Thor’s breathing heavy, Stark’s armour is dented, and Steve’s bleeding from half a dozen wounds. Even Natasha looks winded. 

“Everyone okay?” Steve asks.

“Just peachy,” Stark grumbles. His voice is slightly tinny through the speakers of his suit.

Chitauri approach their position, and Clint shoots them. “What he said.”

“We need to remove Loki from the battle,” Thor rumbles. “Without him, the Chitauri may fall.”

Natasha shakes her head. “We have to take out the Tesseract. If we can destroy it, maybe the portal will collapse.”

Stark takes a few more potshots at the Chitauri. They seem to be regrouping, edging just beyond blaster range. “We can’t - that thing’s protected by an energy shield.”

“We have to try,” Natasha insists. “I want to take a look at it.”

“That’s a good idea,” Steve agrees, “but Thor’s not wrong, either. Loki’s going to keep this fight focused on us and that’s what we need. Without him, these things could run wild. We’ve got Stark up top, he’s going to need us to - ”

Just then wheezy whine of an old speederbike catches Clint’s attention. The team turns as one to watch it _put-putter_ its way towards them, and when it stops, Bruce Banner climbs off.

“Well,” he says, looking around. “This all seems… horrible.”

Clint has seen holovids of the man, but he hadn’t realized how unassuming Banner would appear. He stands on the street facing them all, wearing oversized trousers and a ripped shirt, his hair white with gravel and dust. Still, there’s a glint of humour in his eyes, and a subtle smile on his face.

Natasha looks at him. “I can think of worse.”

Banner winces. “Sorry.”

“No,” she says. She smiles. “We could use... worse.”

Banner nods. A roar from the sky makes them turn. One of the Chitauri space whales is coming, a giant creature almost as long as a cruiser and looking ten times as mean. Clint draws three arrows and Thor twirls his hammer, Stark readies his armour and Steve hoists his shield. Natasha waits. 

“Banner,” Steve says, nodding at the space whale. “As much as I worry about you falling permanently to the Dark Side, I have to say - now might be a good time to get angry.”

Banner gives him a secret smile and turns around. “That’s my secret, Cap,” he says, flexing one hand. “I’m always angry.”

With a mighty roar, he changes. Clint stares, fascinated, as Banner's body morphs like that of a shapeshifter - pink skin turning green, small muscles growing. There’s the sound of bones snapping, changing, and then the puny, skinny human that had been standing in front of them is a great, green, massive _thing_ \- a giant Hulk that Clint can only be glad is on their side.

Banner - or the Hulk - roars. It lifts one giant fist and then ploughs it through the middle of the Chitauri space whale’s head. The whale screams and then collapses, smashing into the street and making the spacescrapers around it shudder. By the time they stop shaking, the space whale is still.

All around them, the Chitauri jeer. They squawk and chatter and hiss, raising their weapons above their head. The team tightens into a protective circle. Clint swallows his fear and stands with his teammates, back to back against the threat.

Above them, the portal erupts. Thousands more Chitauri sail through. The blue of Coruscant’s sky is blotted out.

“Guys,” Natasha warns.

Stark readies his armour. “Call it, Cap.”

Steve starts issuing orders. Clint finds himself on a highrise killing Chitauri, calling out the space whales’ progress to Tony and keeping the Galactic Alliance aware of what’s going on at the same time. He knows that S.H.I.E.L.D. is also listening, but Fury isn’t giving any orders yet, seemingly content to let the team tackle things as they see fit on the ground.

Clint’s bow is alive in his hands, singing under his fingers, but the bone-deep anger that had tempted him before seems to be gone. Clint thinks he has it beat, but it flares again when Loki appears, seated on the back of a Chitauri speeder-bike and smirking. 

Clint sees him and smiles. He picks an arrow with care and holds it to the string. He could do it. He could kill him. He could - 

No. Clint takes a deep breath and centres himself before shooting. Loki catches the arrow a centimeter from his face. His eyes find Clint, and he grins, and then Clint depresses the switch on the side of his bow. 

The arrow explodes.

Loki is flung from the speeder-bike to the tower below. Clint watches. He knows that the pseudo-god isn’t dead and that it’ll take more than one little arrow to kill him, but now Loki’s in the path of someone who _can_ disable him - maybe permanently. 

Clint had just seen the Hulk plough his way into that very same building.

He grins. Some part of him, the part that fuels the Dark Side, hopes Loki dies. Painfully.

Clint shakes his head and gets back to work.

The Chitauri are still coming. The portal is a steady, open maw, with hundreds of aliens still coming through. Clint does what he can for his team, knowing that Natasha is right - the only way to stop this is to destroy the Tesseract. If they don’t close the portal soon, they’ll lose Coruscant. 

Obviously, the Galactic Alliance feels the same way.

Clint’s comm crackles. “All teams, be aware,” Maria Hill says unexpectedly, her voice laced with anger, “there is an incoming bogey headed for Coruscant. It houses a mass shadow generator and has the ability to destroy the planet. Do you read me? Mass shadow generator on board. Take down that missile!”

Clint’s gut clenches, but Stark’s voice comes over the comm. “I’ve got it.” 

“Guys?” Natasha asks. Clint can’t spare a glance to look for her, the Chitauri are starting to climb the side of his building, but the last he saw, she was on Stark Tower examining the Tesseract. “I can do it. I can close the portal.”

“Do it!” Steve says.

“No, wait,” Stark interrupts. “I’ve got the missile. Wait for me to pass through.”

“Stark…” Natasha warns.

“I can do this,” he insists. 

Clint looks. He thinks he sees the blur of Stark's suit speed by, but then one of the Chitauri grabs his foot. Clint kicks it, and then the one who follows it, and then he steps back, away from the ledge.

“I’m being overrun,” he says into his comm. “Going to ground level.”

“Good luck, Clint,” Steve says.

Clint nods and changes out his arrowhead. He’s only got two ceremite anchors left, and his quiver is empty, so he can’t make more. Clint puts the arrow to the string, takes a deep breath, and jumps. 

For a moment, he’s in free-fall. Clint has a half a second to wonder what would happen if he didn’t stop himself, but, no - he has too many deaths to make up for, too much blood on his hands. Besides, he wants to see Coulson again, even one last time.

_I’m sorry,_ he wants to say. _Is this what your vision was? I’m sorry I didn’t listen when you told me to go._

His bow is in his hand. Clint tightens his grip and the rope catches. Clint goes crashing through a window hard enough to break bone, but he thankfully catches the brunt of it on the next-gen armour S.H.I.E.L.D. had requisitioned for him. If he were still in his old merc gear, he’d be dead.

Clint lies for a minute on the cold, unforgiving floor amidst shards of sharp glass before climbing painfully to his feet. He’s aware of the battle raging outside. His comm has been damaged, but he thinks he hears something about Stark and the missile. Clint makes his way as quickly as he can to the window so he can watch Stark’s boots disappear as he redirects the missile up and into the portal, sending it back to wherever the Chitauri are from.

Steve’s voice is fractured over the crackling comm, but Clint still hears him give Natasha the order to shut the portal down. Clint can’t see her, but a moment later the portal stutters. The blue of the Tesseract flashes once, twice, and then vanishes. The rip in space above the skies of Coruscant begins to close.

There’s the flare of a distant explosion coming through the breach. All around them, the Chitauri stop in their tracks, shake, and begin to fall over. Clint watches, but when it becomes clear that they aren’t getting up again, he turns his attention back to the portal.

“Come on,” Clint finds himself muttering, staring through the portal for any glimpse of Stark. “Come _on_.”

He doesn’t know Tony Stark, not really, but he can’t forget the man who had fidgeted in their hotel room on Tatooine, who had rescued himself from captivity by building a suit that should have been impossible. Stark had been in communication with Coulson since that day, and Clint had always known when new information about Stark had become available, because Coulson would mutter, “By the seven hells, Stark.”

Clint smiles at the memory.

“I see him!” Natasha shouts, shaking Clint out of his reverie. He refocuses, and sure enough, there’s a red and gold speck falling out of the sky. 

“Son of a gun,” Steve whispers.

“He’s not slowing down,” Thor says.

Clint turns and races for the broken window. There’s no way he can reach Stark, but he can get back to the team. Grabbing his last ceremite anchor from his quiver, Clint stops at the window, shoots, and jumps. His muscles scream in protest, but he hangs onto his bow. By the time he makes it back to street level, the Hulk has caught Stark and has ripped the faceplate from his head, but Stark isn’t moving. Clint hurries. The Hulk screams, bellowing his rage into Stark’s face, and Stark jumps, coming awake with a gasp.

“Whoa!” he says, looking around wildly. “What the hells? What just happened?” He stops and blinks. “Please tell me nobody kissed me.”

Steve huffs a laugh and leans back, looking around. “We won.”

Clint staggers the last distance to the group. Steve sees him coming and turns to him with a smile.

On the ground, Stark is still smiling weakly. “Hey, great. Alright! Good job, guys.” He tries to get up, fails, and thumps back to the skyway with a groan. “Let’s not come in tomorrow. Let’s just - take a day.”

Clint chuckles. His legs wobble. He tries to catch himself, but he falls over instead. Steve reaches for him, but Clint waves him away, content to sit on his ass amid the fractured duracrete and pieces of glass. “I can’t believe we won.”

“Yay us,” Stark says. “Seriously, someone help me up, I’m starving. Have any of you had shawarma? I saw a shawarma joint not far from here. I don’t know what it is, but I want some.”

Steve looks around at the team. “I could eat.” 

Natasha is just walking up to them. She’s got Loki’s sceptre in her hand. “Me, too.” 

The sight of the sceptre makes something ache in Clint’s chest. He shakes his head. “I’ve got to get back to the ship.”

Steve shoots Natasha a concerned look, and Natasha looks at Clint.

“Come for a bite with us first,” she cajoles. “The food on the ship is bantha crap.”

Clint bites his lip, but she’s right. “Yeah,” he says, glancing around around. “They probably can’t spare a ship to pick us up yet, anyway.”

“That’s the spirit,” Stark says. Thor finally reaches down and hauls him upright. “Oh. Thanks, big guy. Ouch. Okay, shawarma. Let’s go.”

 

*

 

Clint is sure that Coruscant, even with all its history, has never seen a sight like this before - the Avengers Initiative: Stark, Thor, Steve, Natasha, and the Hulk, not to mention Clint himself - staggering down the street, with dust and debris still falling off their clothes. Stark has lost his helmet, the Hulk is yawning, Thor looks frazzled, Rogers has put down his shield, and Natasha looks exhausted. Clint doesn’t even want to know what _he_ looks like.

He’s more than a little surprised to find the shwarma shop is still open. It’s been damaged, but the owners clear a space for ‘Tony Stark and his friends’ quickly enough. Shawarma is apparently an ancient human food, and it’s pretty good. The longer Clint sits, though, the more tired he gets. It’s going to hurt to move pretty soon.

When the food is gone, Thor lifts his glass. “To the Avengers,” he pronounces, “and to the great Son of Coul and all the others who fell this foul day.”

“To us,” Clint murmurs with the others, and then the odd phrasing pierces the foggy exhaustion in his mind. “Wait, what?”

Thor frowns. “We should do them honour.”

“Yes, we should, absolutely,” Clint agrees. “But - _what?_ ”

“Clint,” Natasha starts. 

He thinks she looks nervous, but he doesn’t care. He has eyes only for Thor. “Tell me.”

Thor looks concerned. “The Soul of Coul, my friend. He fell. Loki stabbed him, and he died.”

“No,” Clint breathes. He whips around to stare at Natasha. “You said he was fine!”

“I said Fury and Hill were on the bridge,” she counters. Her voice is even, but Clint can see the way her fingers have tightened on the tabletop. “You assumed that I meant Coulson was with them. I didn’t correct you. He - ”

“Please,” Clint interrupts. “Tasha, _no._ ”

Steve is suddenly on his other side. “Clint,” he says, sounding urgent. “Listen to me - Loki stabbed him. He stabbed him in the back with the sceptre.”

Clint hears a faint, broken sound, and realizes that it’s coming from him.

“But Fury got to him,” Steve hurries to say. “He got to him and put him into a healing trace. He’s in Medical right now. It doesn’t look good, but - ”

“Wait, what?” Stark interrupts. “Fury said he was dead!”

Clint feels himself begin to shake. Natasha shoots Stark a glare.

“His heart stopped,” Steve explains. His voice is low, controlled, calm. Clint latches onto it. “Fury got it started again. Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Stark growls.

Steve looks at him and shrugs. “It’s Jedi stuff. It’s hard to explain.”

“Oh, yes,” Stark sneers. “Wouldn’t want to bend the rules far enough to explain yourselves to the _mere mortals_ or anything!”

“Tony…” Banner starts.

“Enough of this,” Natasha interrupts. She stands, and everyone stops. She looks at Clint. “I’ve been in communication with Fury. We had to get the situation on the ground stabilized, and we’ve done that. He launched a shuttle for us twenty minutes ago. I’ve been trying to keep you distracted until it arrives. When it gets here, we’re going to get on it, and we’re going to take you to Coulson. I don’t know what we’ll find when we get there, but you’ll be able to see him for yourself.”

Somehow, Clint manages to nod. He levers himself to his feet and almost doesn’t notice that both Steve and Natasha have to help him. He wants to wave them away, wants to tell Natasha to fuck off, but he needs their help right now or he’ll never make it all the way to the shuttle.

The guy who brings them up to the _Helicarrier Gold_ is the slowest fucking pilot _ever,_ but Clint restrains himself from taking over - he's in no shape to fly. _Finally_ they break through the atmosphere, and Clint waits with bated breath as the docking bay doors close. Clint climbs out of the shuttle and onto the deck of first real home he’s ever known. The _Helicarrier Gold_ is a smoking, damaged mess, and there’s blood on the walls and debris in the corners, but it’s still flying, it’s still in one piece. Clint’s legs hold him as he walks across the deck, but there’s an edge of exhaustion coming towards him that he won’t be able to hold off for long.

That’s okay, though. He just needs to make it to Medical. Clint focuses on that and directs all of his energy towards it.

No one bothers them as they make their way down the corridors. Clint’s vaguely aware that both Steve and Natasha are flanking him, but he doesn’t argue it. Certainly, no one questions his presence on the ship, and they make their way forward one step at a time.

Finally, the doors to Medical open. Clint immediately sees Coulson. He’s lying on a gurney surrounded by uncountable numbers of metal tubes, the low-shimmer of an energy field visible over his body, two med-droid units working continuously over him. 

For a moment, Clint’s convinced that he’s dead, but then Coulson’s chest lifts, and Clint can see that he’s breathing.

He chokes out a sob as his knees give out. Clint crashes to the floor, and doesn’t even care if anyone catches him.

 

*

 

“Dumb idiots,” growls a familiar voice, “the both of you. Two of the smartest men under my command you’re both thrice damned _morons._ ”

Clint swims his hazy way back to consciousness. “Nice… to see… you too… boss.”

Fury scowls. “Nice? What about this is _nice?_ ” He indicates the walls of Medical. “Nice would be if you took better care of yourself and stopped before fainting for once in your life. What do you think this is? A holodrama? Coulson’s still unconscious, you idiot. He’s not awake to appreciate your romantic bleeding heart.”

Clint flinches. Fury’s tone softens. “I just meant that I was taking care of him. You didn’t have to hurt yourself in the process of getting to him.” He sighs. “You really do love him, don’t you? Fuck the seven hells. Why couldn’t you have said something earlier?”

Clint looks away, avoiding Fury’s eye. Unfortunately, when he turns away he sees Coulson’s unconscious form, still pale but breathing quietly, laying on the gurney next to him. 

“I wasn’t sure what these feelings meant,” he admits quietly, “and then when I did finally decide to do something about them, he left.”

“He pushed you away, you mean,” Fury growls. When Clint looks back at him, he’s scowling. “This is why you’re _both_ on my shit list. The ridiculous idiot admitted everything when I found him bleeding out on the jail cell floor. He’d said he’d had a vision while on Dagobah of you attacking the _Helicarrier Gold._ He’d said your eyes were blue, like the Tesseract. He didn’t know what had happened, but he knew that you’d never turn on S.H.I.E.L.D. of your own free will. He was desperate to get you away from that thing.” 

Clint shakes his head. “And then I ran in after it like an idiot. Why didn’t he say anything?”

Fury snorts. “Because he thought I’d have you locked up - or maybe shot - to prevent it, I don’t fucking know. He didn’t trust me to do the right thing by you. He knew I’d put the good of S.H.I.E.L.D. ahead of my own personal feelings.” He huffs. “He’s not wrong, but I’m not about to tell that son of a bitch that - not that I have to, because he already knows.” He purses his lips, and then looks at Clint. “I would have shot you if I’d come across you under Loki’s control, but not before. I wouldn’t have had you locked up because of a ‘might have been.’ I would have had you carefully watched, though.”

Clint nods. “I know that, and I accept it, boss. If he’d told us and you hadn’t locked me up, I would have volunteered.” He looks away from Fury and back to Coulson again. So, he hadn’t lost Coulson’s trust? Coulson was trying to protect him this entire time? Clint swallows. “Is he going to be okay?”

Fury sighs and shifts in his seat. “I don’t know. I hope so. The bacta has done what it can. We’re on our way to Yavin Four to see if the Masters can offer any help - the Jedi on Coruscant tried, but when it became apparent who Coulson was, they washed their hands of us.” Fury shakes his head. “Fucking politics. I hate it.”

Clint feels his lips quirk up in a smile. “Then you shouldn’t be the Director of a secret spy organization, sir.”

“Well, we’re not secret any longer,” Fury admits. He stands up. “The entire galaxy saw what happened at Coruscant. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s been thrust into the spotlight. We’ll see where it takes us. I’m not optimistic about our chances, but we’ll see where it goes.”

Clint frowns. “What are you worried about?”

Fury shakes his head. “That’s not for you to concern yourself with right now. Sleep. Heal. Eat some fucking food, you look like you’ve lost half your body weight in the past five days. I’m getting us to Yavin and then we’ll worry about the rest. No matter what happens, I want my one good eye at my side when we tackle this, and Barton,” he meets Clint’s gaze and holds it. “I want you there, too.”

“Yes, sir,” Clint says. He means it.

Fury nods and walks away. Clint realizes he could follow, that he isn’t held down. “Sir?”

Fury stops and looks over his shoulder. “Yes?”

“What about what I did? I deserve to be in chains.” 

“What you did was tear yourself from the mind control of a Force Being wielding unimaginable power, almost kill yourself defending the capital of the Galactic Alliance against a race of aliens we’ve never encountered before, and collapse in a romantic heap like a six year old Corellian learning sabacc for the first time.” Fury smiles. “You deserve a medal, Barton, but you’re getting a job. Be satisfied with that.”

Clint’s reels. “Yes, sir.”

Fury shoots him a look and then walks away. Clint looks over at Coulson again. 

“Your best friend is scary, boss,” he murmurs into the faintly humming space. Machines beep and blink, whirring quietly, all doing their very best to keep Coulson alive. “But I’m glad I’m here. I’m glad you brought me in. Thank you.”

Coulson doesn't answer, but he doesn’t stop breathing, either. Laying back down on his gurney, Clint closes his eyes. He sleeps. 

 

*

 

Stark needles Steve incessantly the whole time they’re in orbit around Yavin Four, but Clint mostly ignores them. Steve can handle himself, and besides, Natasha is there to keep the worst of the violence in check. Clint still hasn’t entirely forgiven her for lying to him before the battle, but he knows why she did. He’d proven by his collapse that he would’ve been useless if she’d told him the truth. Clint’s glad that he’d gotten to fight, but he wishes she had been honest with him, too.

He snorts just thinking of it, leaning back against the wall of the watchtower that’s been constructed in the treetops of Yavin Four. Natasha, the notorious spy, and he’s angry because she wasn’t honest. It’s possible that he needs to get his head out of his ass and apologize to her.

He will, just not right now. Someone is stepping out of the building where they have Coulson sequestered, and Clint jumps out the watchtower to meet them, skimming down the rope someone has thoughtfully provided.

“Are you Agent Barton?” the young Rhodian asks. She’s a Jedi, going by the lightsaber hanging on her belt, the white lining of her robe identifying her as a healer of the third class. 

Clint’s learned a lot about the Jedi over the past several days.

“Yes,” he says, hurrying over to her. She looks tired, but pleased.

“Agent Coulson is asking for you, sir. If you’ll come with me?”

Clint almost trips over himself in his haste to follow her. His stomach is turning flip flops in his belly. The Jedi have had Coulson here for three days, not allowing anyone in, no matter how Clint had pestered. They haven’t told him what they’re doing to him, either, nor given any indication of how he was doing day to day.

Clint hadn’t known if Coulson was conscious, or dead. Or even if he would remember anyone when he woke up.

“Clint,” Coulson says, looking up the moment Clint walks in. The building where they have him is dark, its ceiling low. Clint has to get on his knees and crawl to where Coulson is laying on a foam mattress, candles and crystals and beeping machines all around him. There are three Jedi here even now, white hoods covering their features, hands extended as they do something Clint will never be able to understand.

“Sir,” Clint chokes out, because Coulson looks terrible, pale and haggard and his voice is hoarse, but he’s _here_. He’s _alive._

Coulson’s eyes brighten when he looks at him. “You’re okay,” Coulson breathes, sounding relieved. He reaches forward. “Nick told me they got you back, but I wasn’t sure - ”

“I’m fine,” Clint reassures him. He wonders if he’s allowed to touch, and then decides - fuck it, no one’s stopping them - and reaches forward to take Coulson’s hand. It’s warm. Clint squeezes it gently. “Hardly a scratch.”

“Good,” Coulson says, and smiles at him. It’s soft and real and so, so beautiful. “I was...” He laughs, but it’s not a pretty sound. “I was so worried. Beyond worried, I was panicked.” He shakes his head. “I’m so sorry, Clint.”

Clint bites his lower lip. He doesn’t want to look away, but the pain and fear and - worse - the _horror_ of what Loki did to him wells up inside his chest. He doesn’t want Coulson to see that, so he looks down. “Why didn’t you just _tell_ me?”

He hears Coulson swallow. “I should have, I know that now. Believe me, Nick made it very, _very_ clear to me when he thought I was dying, but I - ” he makes a choking sound.

Clint looks up. Around them, the Jedi are silent.

“I was raised on Yavin Four,” Coulson goes on, after a moment. He’s the one looking away now. “My skill with the Force became apparent from an early age, and I was taken here to be brought up as a Jedi. Part of that education came with understanding what Force visions were. They’re prophecies, but they are tinted by the thoughts and emotions of the recipient. That’s one of the reasons why some Jedi still swear by the ‘no attachments, no emotions’ code - they feel that if a Jedi has someone in their life,” his eyes skidder up to Clint’s, and then away again, “someone they love, then those feelings will exert undue influence.”

Coulson takes a deep breath. “I never believed them, not entirely, not until I - ” He swallows. “I saw you, Clint. _You._ Firing at S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. I couldn’t - ” He shakes his head. “I thought I could keep you away from the Tesseract, and keep Fury from doing anything rash. I thought I could manage everything.” He takes a shuddering breath. “I was wrong.”

Clint’s hands tighten around Coulson’s. “I understand that you did what you thought was right,” he says slowly, “but I wish you had trusted me enough to tell me the truth. I thought - ” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. I don’t think you could have prevented this, I don’t think _anyone_ could have, that’s what a Force vision means. Still, I would have wanted to know the truth.”

Coulson’s breath catches. He looks up at Clint. “The whole truth?” 

Clint can’t speak. There’s pain behind Coulson’s eyes, and worry, but more - so much more. Clint can only nod. 

Coulson swallows. “I love you,” he whispers. He weak fingers twitch in Clint’s hands. “I’ve loved you for so long. When I was hunting you on Ralavi, darting after you through the jungle, I admired and respected you. When you agreed to stay on board, I was overjoyed, and when you smiled at me, I was smitten. I love you, Clint. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you enough to trust you with this. I love you. I’m sorry.”

Clint opens his mouth, chokes, and stops. He brings Coulson’s fingers to his lips and kisses them. “I love you, too,” he finally admits. “You were always so patient, and kind, and _good,_ and I - I tried to resist you, but I couldn’t. I fell in love with you. I didn’t know how to say anything, or _if_ I should say anything, or what would change if I did. I didn’t even know how to admit it to myself.”

“I wanted to tell you so many times,” Coulson whispers. “It’s not - I’m not good, at that. It was never encouraged in the Jedi Order. We were trained to be impartial observers, but I wanted more, so I left. I joined S.H.I.E.L.D. I wondered, sometimes, if that was the right thing to do, and then I met you, and I never doubted it again. You’re so wonderful, Clint. So deserving of love.”

Clint laughs wetly. “Is that why you got so weird about Natasha and Sam? Because you were jealous?”

Coulson colours. It’s faint, probably because of his blood loss, but it’s real. “Yes. I tried. I’d meditate at night and remind myself that what we had - what I had with you - was good. Was enough. But I could never quite convince myself.”

Clint presses his lips together. “I’m sorry,” he confesses. “I knew - I knew I was attracted to you. I could have said something earlier, but - ” He hesitates. “I wasn’t sure - ”

Coulson hushes him. “I’m glad you waited,” he says, and then obviously steels himself. “And even now, if you - if this is just because I got injured, or because I’m telling you how I feel, then I understand if - ”

“No,” Clint interrupts. “No, it isn’t. I - I swear to you, I want this. Want you. I’d decided that back on Hoth. I _trust_ you. Natasha was right - that should be enough. Even if this all goes to crap, if I - _when_ I - fuck it up, at least I’ll know that we tried.”

Coulson’s fingers twitch against his. “You won’t fuck it up,” he promises. “If either of us does, then we’ll work on it together. That’s what people who love each other do.”

Clint smiles, and kisses Coulson’s fingertips again. “Fury’s pissed at us, you know. I think he suspected. He’s almost as mad at me as he is at you.”

Coulson’s lips twist. “I doubt that very much. Nick’s _very_ angry with me. He flat out ordered me not to die.”

Clint tightens his hand around Coulson’s again. “Good.”

Coulson gives him a gentle smile. “I’m glad that I didn’t. I would have, though, if it meant getting you back. I would have done anything to fix that, Clint.”

“I know,” Clint whispers. He takes a deep breath in, holds it, and then lets it out. Declarations of love change things - _have_ to change things. It’s time. It’s time to let Coulson in. “Phil.”

Phil stares at him in wonder. Finally he snaps his mouth shut, pulls Clint closer, and kisses him. 

Clint melts into the kiss. The Jedi around them either don’t notice, or don’t care. Clint dismisses them. They aren’t important, only Phil is. 

Phil - who’s whole, and alive. 

Clint holds him close. He never wants to let him go again.


	11. Epilogue

“But I want to _fly_ her, Phil. Come on. You know May will never appreciate her,” Clint whines.

Phil, firmly in ‘Agent Coulson’ mode - despite the fact that he’s still wearing loose clothing with easily accessible buttons so he doesn’t have to pull anything over his chest - doesn’t bother looking up. “Agent May will appreciate her just fine, Clint, and you can always trade off shifts with her, if you like.”

“You know she’ll never let me,” Clint complains. He drops himself into the seat beside Phil. “She’s greedy with her toys.”

Phil glances at him over the top of his pad. He’s wearing thick-rimmed black glasses, which Clint finds insanely hot. “Remind you of anyone you know?”

“Absolutely not,” Clint deadpans. The urge to tackle Phil and kiss him is strong, but he knows that Phil will respond better if he’s allowed to do some actual work. Instead, he kicks Phil - lightly - in the shin. “No one at all.” Clint stops and thinks. “Well, maybe Stark.”

Phil chuckles and goes back to his reports. He’s reviewing personnel files for the mobile recon team Fury has given him leave to build. Clint’s already been recruited, of course. As if he was going to let Phil tear across the galaxy without anyone competent to watch his back. 

They also have Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons for tech and science, and an agent named Grant Ward, who will help with the tactical side of things. As much as Clint hates to admit it, it’s possible that he might get called away now and again, since Fury seems to have decided Clint's also going to be an Avenger, ready at a moment’s notice in case the galaxy is suddenly put at risk.

Clint thinks that’s plenty, but Phil thinks they need to have another pilot on board, and he wants Melinda May. 

“She’ll never do it, anyway,” Clint predicts. “She gave up active duty after what happened on Bpassh.”

Phil doesn’t rise to the bait. “I know, I was there,” he says calmly, “but Melinda’s not made to sit behind a desk. She’s been too long off active duty, she needs to come back into the field.” He holds up a hand when Clint would protest. “I’m not going to push her, Clint. I swear. I’m just going to offer her the choice.”

Clint settles back down. He doesn’t really think Phil would _push_ , necessarily, but he does have a way about him, an earnestness he hides behind blank stares and good suits. That earnestness has been a little easier to see since Phil was injured, or maybe since he and Clint got together.

Clint’s glad. He likes to see the way Phil’s eyes sparkle now when he’s happy, especially since Clint seems to make him happy a lot.

“Okay,” Clint says, backing down. He knows the tangle someone can get into when they’ve been through a tough experience - it’s important to think things over, but it’s also useful to _do_ something about the pain in your heart, even if it’s only for a distraction. “Maybe a secondary pilot wouldn’t be a bad thing to have.”

“I’m glad you think that, since you’ll be the secondary in this case,” Phil informs him with a smile. “The only way I’ll get Melinda onboard is if I promise her flying the Bus is all she’ll need to do.”

Clint groans. “No, and also - I thought we’d agreed on a better name?” 

Phil chuckles. “‘Spaceracer’ is not an appropriate nickname.”

“What about ‘Puddlejumper?’” Clint asks. “Or ‘Trouble Finder?’ Come on, _anything_ has to be better than ‘the Bus.’”

“It’s an ancient nickname, steeped in important S.H.I.E.L.D. history,” Phil informs him.

“Which means you’re too lazy to adapt to a different one,” Clint teases. “Old man.”

Phil looks at him over the rim of his glasses. “Oh, I see, is that how it’s going to be? You young whippersnapper.”

Clint grins. Phil’s probably gotten enough work done. “Going to take me over your knee?”

“Hmm,” Phil deliberates, and Clint laughs. He climbs forward, carefully avoiding making _too_ much of a mess of the pads, and deposits himself in Phil’s lap.

Phil’s chest is still healing, but it’s come a long way since those first terrifying days. Clint runs a careful hand up Phil's back and his neck and into his hair, pulling their mouths together.

Phil grips his hips with strong hands and holds him there. After a minute, he leans back, nipping at Clint’s lower lip. “Is that what you want?”

Clint’s already forgotten the thread of the conversation. “Anything,” he promises, kissing Phil again. “Everything.”

“As you wish,” Phil promises, and strokes a hand up his thigh. “For as long as you wish it.”

“How about forever?” Clint asks, bending forward so he can rest his forehead against Phil’s and look into his eyes.

“That’s a great start,” Phil agrees, and kisses him again.

 

~ The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end, folks! Thank you so much for coming with me on this, I hope you enjoyed the ride!
> 
> As you can tell, this isn't the end of the story. We all know there's more to come!! The question is just, will I eventually write it?
> 
> I can't tell you yes or and I can't tell you no. I have so many sequels I should be working on, and all I'm doing is writing new stuff! As always, the sandbox is open - if anyone wants to jump in and start something, go ahead!! I'd love to read it!!
> 
> I _would_ like to write more in this verse, and I might, but there's nothing started now. It took me two years to get this far, after all. 
> 
> Thank you all for the comments and kudos and love. I'm thrilled that you enjoyed it. Huge and forever THANK YOUs to my fabulous betas, OrderlyChaos and Ralkana, two incredibly talented writers who took time out of their own busy schedules and lives to help me with this monster. THANK YOU LADIES!!! You are beyond this world.
> 
>  
> 
> See you all next time! Plenty of AU's, starships, romance, and ClintCoulson to come!
> 
>  
> 
> ~ Raiining

**Author's Note:**

> The Star Wars map I used to plan this fic is located here: http://www.starwars7news.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/Star_wars_map_star_wars_galaxy_map_official_galactic_map_star_wars_universe_1.jpg


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